


Hands of Time

by andchaos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Drug Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel keeps coming back to various times in Dean's past, and Dean isn't sure why. It's less AU and more UA, because I really wanted a Time Traveler's Wife AU but there wasn't one, so I made one. (Warning: This is not exactly like The Time Traveler's Wife. It's based off it, but it isn't perfect.)</p><p>Named after R Kelly's song of the same name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_November 2, 1983: Dean is 4_

 

Dean met him when Dean was four and he was eons old.

          Actually, "met" might be too mild a word because point of fact, he appeared in his bedroom with a wild flapping sound and a quiet, "Hello, Dean," which even for a four year old is excessively traumatizing.

          Dean jumped up from bed immediately, his blankets pooling onto the mattress. He looked up at his surprise visitor with wide eyes and parted lips, then sucked in a loud breath, preparing to scream, but Castiel moved forward swiftly and clamped a hand over his mouth. Dean stood on his toes, his fearful expression morphing into one of confusion: From this close up, he could clearly see the intruder's eyes, and they were sparkling with tears in the pale moonlight streaming through his window. Dean's brow furrowed and he settled back onto flat feet. Castiel carefully removed his hand, watching the boy closely to see how he would react, making sure he wouldn’t shout out.

          “Who are you?”

          “My name is Castiel.”

          "Why are you crying?" Dean asked in that lilting voice that little kids always use.

          Castiel sucked in a breath and stared at the boy, evidently not trusting himself to speak. When he did talk, the words were measured and careful.

          "I'm just happy to see you, Dean. It's been a very long time."

          Dean watched him, one eyebrow rising in confusion, his expression one of guarded mistrust. "What? I don't know you."

          Castiel smiled an awkward, wobbly smile. He didn’t do it much, especially not anymore, so he hadn’t figured out the mechanics of a normal grin. "Not yet. We don't meet for awhile. We have years."

          "But...but we're meeting  _now_."

          He looked down at the boy fondly, though something horrible twisted in his gut. He swallowed with difficulty and said, “I don’t meet you for twenty-four years, Dean.”

          Dean’s face lit up like fireworks in the black sky. He beamed, happier than Castiel had ever seen him look in real time, and bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet, joy so potent he was absolutely  _radiating_  with it. Castiel stared at him, bewildered at this reaction to his serious announcement.

          “Are you from the  _future_?” the little boy whispered breathlessly, elatedly, and after several measured seconds, Castiel nodded.

          “Oh,  _wow_!” exclaimed Dean, jumping up onto his bed and crossing his legs firmly. “How?”

          Castiel raised his eyebrow, trying to do the math in his head. Time travel was something of a difficult business, and though he knew he had gotten the correct year, he didn’t know how late into the year it actually _was_. Did Dean know about hunting? His mother’s double life? That the monsters under his bed were very real indeed?

          “This is your house?”

          Dean looked mildly confused at the question, which was fair. It was a tad bizarre, and definitely not an answer.

          “Yes. I live here with Mommy and Daddy and little Sammy,” he said, befuddlement touching his tone at the edges. “Are you sure you’re from the future?”

          Castiel smiled softly. “I’m sure.”

          So he lived here with both parents. Castiel must have been a few months off when he came back, but at least he had the year right. God, the kid only had a few weeks left, probably…

          “I screwed up,” he said suddenly, sitting on the edge of Dean’s bed. “I’m sorry. I—I shouldn’t have come back—”

          “Don’t go!” said Dean unhappily, reaching out with stubby little hands to capture the sleeve of Castiel’s trench coat. He flinched away automatically, discontentedly, remembering the last time Dean had held onto his sleeve, nearly thirty years from now. The touch had been much less innocent, though the wide eyes and pleading stare was the same.

          Castiel looked at him for a few seconds and then sighed spectacularly and slumped back into himself a little, resigned and grimacing. “Of course. But I can’t stay long.”

          “That’s okay,” said Dean, already looking a little happier. “Stay and tell me a story.”

          “What do you want to know?” Castiel asked guardedly.

          “What’s the future like?”

          Castiel took a deep breath and then let it out huffily, unsure what to reveal, knowing it probably didn’t matter anyway because destiny can’t be changed and all roads lead to the same destination anyway. Also, Dean was  _four_. He wasn’t going to understand the philosophical musings that raged through Castiel’s brain on a daily basis.

          “You grow up to be a hero.”

          Dean leaned forward, all green eyes, wide with eagerness and excitement, and freckled skin, stretched taut in a grin. Castiel flinched away again, thinking about the grief and self-deprecation that would taint this boy’s purity in a few decades. He couldn’t look at him, though Dean was studying Castiel’s face intently like he wanted to memorize it for when they met later.

          “I do?” whispered Dean, quiet awe coloring his tone. Millions of fantasies raced across his mind. Him: in a Batman suit, wearing Superman’s cape, dressed up like a fireman, doing good, saving people…

          Castiel’s eyes flicked over the kid, and he tried to hide the pain crinkling the corners of his eyes by turning his face away from Dean, who was nosily staring up at him, leaning nearly into his lap to try and keep eyes on his face.

          “You do,” Castiel confirmed quietly. There was a brief silence, and then he got quickly to his feet.

          “Are you leaving?” asked Dean, his face openly hurt, his voice obviously distressed and crestfallen.

          Castiel turned slowly toward him, admittedly contemplating this substantially less painful course of action, but when he observed the broken expression on Dean’s face, all he saw was someone twenty-nine years older, looking up at him with tears half-formed in his eyes, his lips parted, his hair pushed back and blood-soaked. Castiel averted his eyes and whispered,

          “No, Dean. I’ll never leave you.”

          That was a little heavy for a four-year old. Dean raised an eyebrow but said nothing to this strange pronouncement.

          “I mean—not yet,” Castiel tried and failed to amend casually. “I will only go when you ask me to do so.”

          Dean studied him for a minute in silence, then said, “Okay—but not yet. Stay with me.”

          _Stay with me, stay with me,_ a Phantom Dean whispered, and Castiel blinked away the ghost-image his mind had created.

          “Tell me more stories about the future,” continued Dean eagerly, oblivious to the mental breakdown Castiel was experiencing. Did angels even _get_ hallucinations? What the hell was happening to him?

          “I can’t,” said Castiel in a mockery of his old monotone. The phantasmagoric man that this boy would become had broken his resolve, and his voice shook; he hoped Dean was still too young and self-absorbed to notice.

          Of course, Dean had never been particularly self-absorbed. Always the loyal soldier, even without John’s militant parenting.

          “Why are you crying?” Dean asked, crawling forward and up onto his knees, reaching out to rub his little hands over the tears that Castiel hadn’t even realized were falling. Castiel leaned involuntarily into the touch, then pulled away abruptly and scraped vicious hands over his cheeks, hating the feel of dried tears against his vessel’s skin.

          “I’m just happy to see you,” he repeated mechanically, trying to smile and failing considerably.

          Dean, too perceptive and not yet closed off, reached out and wrapped his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, leaned his face into his neck. Castiel did not hug him back; he fidgeted awkwardly in the circle of the little boy’s arms, though he secretly liked the contact. Any contact with Dean—in his present or now—was heavenly right now.

          Dean let him go after a minute or two. _Wait, don’t,_ Castiel almost protested, but he didn’t. Instead, he carefully opened his mouth, looked Dean hard in the eyes, and said, “Thank you.”

          Dean smiled peacefully, more peacefully than Castiel had ever seen him do anything. He wanted to do something—ruffle his hair, embrace him—but he was afraid to scare him off. He might know Dean pretty much as intimately as one can know a person, in the future, but to this boy he was nothing but a stranger and an intruder who came from nowhere, straight out of a sci-fi movie but with a lot more sobbing.

          “Are you okay now?” Dean asked, hands twisted in the sleeve of Castiel’s trench coat.

          “I’m great, Dean,” Castiel said, blinking rapidly. He cast around for something to say. “Do you want to hear about the future still?”

          Dean sat back and nodded fervently. Castiel considered for a few moments.

          “Well,” he said slowly, “I can’t tell you _everything_ about the future…”

          “Why?” Dean interjected.

          “Your future self didn’t know about any of it. Destiny can’t be changed, Dean. Your future self remained unaware of any…developments, so you can’t know either.” Castiel said this all like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

          Dean looked at him curiously. That actually didn’t make much sense, and Castiel’s Dean would have said, “That’s crap. I don’t buy into any of that destiny bull, and you shouldn’t either. Come on, Cas, what happened to free will?”

          But this was not Castiel’s Dean. _This_ Dean just nodded like everything he had just said made perfect sense.

          “Can you tell me how you got here?” ventured Dean.

          “I am an angel of the Lord,” he answered simply.

          Dean looked at him in open-mouthed surprise. “God is real?”

          “He is my Father, Dean. Yes, he is very real.”

          “Wow.”

          He was quiet for a time, probably trying to think of non-objectionable questions.

          “But _how_ did you get here?” he asked after about five minutes, realizing Castiel hadn’t really answered the question properly.

          Castiel shrugged. “We angels are saddled with certain…privileges, as I suppose you would think of them. Time is fluid, Dean. It’s not easy, but we can bend it on occasion.”

          “Then why can’t you change it?”

          “History has already been written. So it has been decreed by the Scribe of God, so it shall come to pass.”

          Dean was quiet again. Eventually he asked, “Why are you coming to visit me?”

          Castiel really, _really_ didn’t want to answer that. He opened his mouth to deter Dean from this line of questioning when somebody in the house screamed. Castiel jumped to his feet; he first thought was that somebody had seen him, but when he whipped his head toward the door, a knife sliding out of his sleeve and into his hand, he saw that it was still shut firmly. Panic sliced through him like lightning, and he realized.

          _Oh no_. Castiel had the right year, but he was wrong in so many new ways. He had been _months_ behind when he had calculated the date earlier; Dean didn’t have weeks, Dean had _minutes_.

          “Dean,” he said lowly, whirling around and wrapping his right shoulder in a fierce grip. He ignored the terror shining in Dean’s eyes, which were flicking between Castiel’s eyes, his death grip, and his weapon. “You need to get Sam and run.”

          “W-what?”

          _“Run!”_ he ordered, and with that he spun around and sprinted out the door into the hallway.

          Everything was chaos; there weren’t that many people in the house but suddenly there seemed to be _too_ many people despite the fact. Mary was at the end of the hallway, staggering and gasping and clutching at her torso in various places. She was bloody and messy and pale. John hurtled out of their bedroom, his eyes locking on Mary, but then he saw Castiel. A wild, strangled crytore from his lips and he started to lunge at Castiel, but Mary gasped out, _“Not him—werewolf—”_ and John turned toward her, rushing to grab her as she fell. Dean was peeking out from behind his door, and Castiel tried to shepherd him away from the scene, but he had already taken in everything. His eyes were wide and horrified and petrified, and Castiel grabbed him and carried him into Sam’s nursery. Someone behind him shouted, _“DEAN!”_ but Castiel had already all but thrown Dean to the floor in his haste to get to Sam’s crib. The baby was crying, but he picked up the kid and shoved him at Dean.

          “Dean—take your brother outside as fast as you can,” Castiel said, low and urgent, gesturing out the door and toward the stairs opposite Mary and John. Dean hesitated, but Castiel rumbled forcefully, “Now, Dean! Go!” and he turned and hurtled out the door and down the hallway. Castiel followed close behind but turned in the opposite direction, not even pausing before running toward the couple at the end of the hallway. They looked up as he approached, hands raised in a gesture of surrender, but Mary screamed, _“What happened to my sons?”_ and John tried to tackle him, but Castiel easily threw him to the ground.

          “Dean took Sam outside to safety. Can you walk?” Castiel asked, reaching down to help Mary to her feet. She nodded but gripped his arm tightly to help heave herself up. “Where is it?” asked Castiel, and Mary gestured weakly behind her. She had evidently chosen to trust him, at least for the moment.

          “I heard it break through the front door right as you went into the nursery—you have to get me my gun—”

          “You can’t fight!” Castiel interrupted loudly and forcefully. “Get into the bedroom and lock the door—”

          “Mary, what is happening?” John asked urgently, but they both ignored him. He was neither hunter nor helper and right now he was really just one giant hindrance, but both Castiel and Mary knew that he would never leave his wife. Actually, Castiel knew _exactly_ how this was going to end.

          He could barely bring himself to say what he knew must be said, what must be done. “John,” he said, turning to face the irate and perplexed man, “You need to get your wife into your bedroom. Lock the door and don’t come out.”

          “I—”

          “John!” This one word was thrown out like an order, but only after a few more persuasively shallow gasps from Mary did John nod once at this savior that had appeared from nowhere, and he dragged his wife into their bedroom.

          Castiel breathed deeply, thinking. He knew where the werewolf was, just as he knew where Sam and Dean were. He insufflated deeply and then spun around and took off at a run, not toward where Mary had indicated the monster was, but down the stairs after the boys. Some savior.

          Of all things, Dean looked _guilty_ when Castiel found him hiding in the playroom.

          “I couldn’t leave my parents alone—” he whispered, staring at the ground. He was still clutching Sam to his chest.

          Castiel genuflected and gripped Dean’s shoulder tightly. “I understand, Dean. That’s why you need to stay in here. Don’t go out into the hallway,  and _don’t_ go outside.”

          He may have been playing the hero before, but now Dean’s fright seemed to have properly set in, and he nodded fearfully. Anyway, Castiel knew he would listen to these instructions; he didn’t need the boy’s shaky nod to affirm this. He let the kid agree, though, before standing fluidly and running back out of the room, making sure to shut and _lock_ the door when he was safely in the hallway. Realistically, Dean was scared out of his mind, but Castiel had seen the scratch marks the sun would reveal. Dean would try to get out anyway, if only half-heartedly. Besides, Castiel couldn’t risk anything getting _in_.

          He reappeared inside Mary and John’s bedroom, because flying was faster than sprinting and the end might be unavoidable but Dean had—or rather, would—teach him to believe in free will.

          The werewolf was in the room, of course, having run around the outside and broken through the window. Glass littered the bed and floor and John and Mary were huddled in a corner, the monster crouched over them. Castiel strode forward purposefully and gripped the werewolf’s shoulder tightly, then threw it across the room. It hit the wall hard and slumped to the floor, but sprang back up almost immediately and lunged toward Castiel. In one swift motion, the angel swept up the gun on Mary’s dresser, aimed it, and fired a silver bullet straight into the werewolf’s heart. It froze horrorstruck in midair, its face transforming back into human likeness, but Castiel did not see the evolution. Mouth in a grim line, he set the weapon down and turned back to the Winchesters before the werewolf had even hit the ground.

          “What in the hell was that?” asked John, panting heavily, his arms wrapped around Mary’s shoulders. She was deathly pale.

          “A werewolf,” said Castiel, leaning down to check Mary’s pulse. He was wild and unreasonable; he could fix her if she had a pulse…

          He straightened up, not answering the questions in John’s eyes. Mary did not stir.

          Castiel stared down at the man before him. _He_ was healable. He could go to the hospital and be better, but his sons needed him tonight, so Castiel leaned down and touched his forehead lightly. John moved to swat him away, but then gasped as a sort of light filled him, seeped into all of his crevices and sewed him together. Then it was gone, and he felt hollow and miserable.

          “What—?” But he could not even finish the question.

          Castiel glowered down at him, powerful and furious. “Don’t do it, John,” he said warningly, and before John could ask, _Don’t do what?_ , Castiel was gone with a flap of wings. After all, the future was inevitable. He would take the same path, every time.

 

~*~

 

Dean was huddled in the playroom still, sitting on the couch with his back on the armrest and his head on the wall, Sam still cradled to his chest. Castiel looked down fondly at him, not meaning to wake him, but the hovering presence over him startled Dean to conscious anyway.

          “Cas!” he gasped out, and Castiel cringed. This was somehow the first and last time he had heard Dean use that nickname.

          _Cas,_ Phantom Dean taunted through the intervening years. _Stay with me, Cas. I need you, Cas. Stay with me._

          “Dean,” he acknowledged gravely, blinking away the imagined apparition and trying not to show the pain that knifed through him.

          “What happened—?”

          Castiel looked away and breathed deeply. He needed him to remember this. He turned back to the boy and said, as vehemently and convincingly as he was capable, “It’s not your fault, Dean. The future is inevitable. You’re going to be a hero.”

          Dean looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes, terrified and uncomprehending.

          “Cas, I—”

          But he was already gone.


	2. Chapter 2

 

_May 16, 1989: Dean is 10_

 

Ten-year-old Dean was all sass and attitude and sneering self-confidence.

          In short, he was broken. Castiel immediately liked him because he was much more like _his_ Dean than the four-year-old version of the boy, though still without most of the innumerable complexes.

          Castiel appeared in the back of Singer’s Salvage Yard, peering through the windows. He had required several weeks to regain strength enough to time travel again and even longer to steel himself to actually do it, because he knew just how psychologically damaging and horribly messed-up this entire idea actually was. So it had been about two months since he’d visited four-year-old Dean, the night his mother died. Of course, Dean had had six years to brood and blame himself and get into the hunter’s life with his father, so he wasn’t going to be the same boy at all.

          Dean once told Castiel that John had spent two years tracking down the werewolf’s pack and slaughtering them all. Afterwards, he started going on regulation hunts—wendigos, shtrigas, demons, whatever he could find. He dragged his sons with him, though Sam preferred spending time with Bobby whenever possible, and Dean was often left to hunt with John alone. This lonely life of friendlessness and secrets—even Sam didn’t know what happened when his father and brother got into that Impala and drove away, because he so obviously _wanted_ normality and the other two were determined to grant him that—was bound to have taken a toll on his head. Castiel had seen the aftermath when it was all healed over; now he had to witness the immediate damage.

          It actually wasn’t that bad.

This Dean, the one who currently belonged firmly in 1989, wandered out into the yard looking for Bobby just before noon. His step was light and easy; he still thought that this was all _cool_ , the knife fights and gunshots and nomadic lifestyle. He meandered between the cars, searching for his dad’s friend, who was supposed to help him practice with a double-barrel today (although Castiel had seen the baseball and gloves stowed in the backseat of Bobby’s truck).  He ambled between the rows of broken down vehicles, knowing Bobby was outside working on some car or other, and stopped short between a beaten-up blue Chevy with a smashed windshield and a Honda with three wheels missing and the front grill warped and dented.

          His emotions played out clearly on his face: Recognition, confusion, anger.

          “You,” he growled, and started forward with his fist raised. Ten-year-old Dean was all aggression and brute force, Castiel remembered from Dean’s anecdotes. He still thought his dad was some badass superhero, and basked in the violent bloodbath that was his father’s career. He didn’t fully understand just yet what the job entailed. Dad hunted monsters; Dad was cool. Therefore Dean, in order to be cool too, had to play the ruthless, fearless knight. But that was the thing: Dean was just playing, so far.

          Castiel raised a hand and caught Dean’s fist in his own. “Stop,” he said simply, and Dean dropped his hand and aggressiveness almost immediately. “I am not your enemy,” continued Castiel. “I did my best to save your parents, your brother, and yourself. You know that.”

          Dean glared at him. “You disappeared. You left me.” He looked away, his face falling. “You promised you wouldn’t leave me.”

          Castiel sighed. _That_ was Dean’s problem?

          “I had no choice,” he said, his voice even more gravelly than usual. “You have a life to live, after all.”

          Dean glowered at his shoes and kicked idly at the pebbles under his feet. “Not much of one. We move so much—”

          “But you have your father, Bobby, and Sam,” Castiel interjected.

          Dean looked up and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but not _really_. Dad’s away all the time, and…and Sammy doesn’t know.”

          Castiel had only met Sam Winchester a handful of times, mostly on Dean’s birthdays. Five seconds’ conversation was enough to deduce that Sam knew nothing of Dean’s lifestyle, even if he hadn’t known. Otherwise, Sam probably would have ditched the lawyer getup and gotten into the 1967 Impala to help save the world, because his loyalty and sense of familial duty was that strong. He probably would’ve had a bitchface on the whole time, though. Of course, Dean’s biggest dream in life was for his Sammy to grow up normal, all white-picket fences and fresh apple pies. His wedding had been last month. Castiel hadn’t been able to face going; he had sent an apology letter and something off the register after the fact.

          “Hey,” said Dean after a minute of silence, and only then did Castiel realize that he hadn’t reacted where a response was clearly sought. “Why are you here anyway, Cas?”

          Castiel looked away, out over the salvage yard, and sighed. “I wanted to see you, Dean. It’s been months.”

          “Six years for me,” he scoffed, scuffing the ground with his toes again. Castiel made an apologetic face. “So why now?”

          Castiel glanced around the yard again. “It just seemed like a good time,” he said shiftily. Dean watched him with slightly narrowed eyes, but then seemed to accept the non-answers.

          “Fine,” he snorted, unimpressed regardless. “You wanna do something?”

          Castiel turned his eyes to the boy, surprised at the non sequitur. “Do something? Like what?”

          “I don’t know. You ever play catch, angel boy?”

          _You ever see Star Trek, Angelface?_ Phantom Dean’s lips ghosted over Castiel’s ear. He fought not to physically swat away the imaginary voice.

          “No, but humans seem to like it,” he said to both Deans, a shadow of the words he had mumbled nearly twenty years from now. The older version laughed; young Dean smirked.

          “It’s great, Cas. Come on, I’ll show you how. I just need to ask Bobby—” But as he turned around to glance around once more, searching for his father figure, Castiel reached over and pressed two fingers to his forehead.

          Dean collapsed on the grass, gasping, on all fours. “Holy shit! What was _that_?”

          Castiel stared steadily at him. “I’ve transported us to the nearest recreational park.”

          Dean looked around, plainly pleased. “Wow…uhm, okay. Impressive. But let’s see what you can do with a ball.”

          He sauntered away. Castiel stood there awkwardly for several minutes, people-watching but not moving, before Dean returned, routinely flicking his wrist so that the ball in his hand flew straight up. He caught it every time it fell.

          He explained the relatively simple mechanics of the game and then stood about ten feet away from Castiel to begin, situating himself into the proper stance and pulling his arm back.

          “Ready?” he called. Castiel nodded, not entirely convinced of his own ability.

          Rightfully so. Castiel had enough coordination to beat up demons and kill monsters, but he couldn’t aim to save his life. Dean already knew this—or he would know this in twenty years, anyway. Castiel always used a knife because, despite the rigorous training sessions Dean insisted upon, he just could never get the hang of a gun.

          They talked as they threw the baseball. Dean was innately curious, of course, as he always had been. He wanted to know all about Heaven and the future, which meant that Castiel simply refused to answer many of the kid’s questions. He did, however, reply to many basic questions about his physical being, and even agreed to show Dean his wings later. Castiel didn’t ask many questions about Dean’s childhood, because he knew all the stories anyway.

          “So you know that I’m a hunter?” Dean asked at one point, sans segue.

          Castiel cocked his head. “Of course. Like I said, you’re a hero. You’re going to grow up to be the greatest hunter that ever lived.”

          Dean looked up at him, open-mouthed and in evident awe. He had frozen, poised to throw the ball. Pieces of their history started to fall into place, and Castiel could tell words from their past conversations were running viciously through his head. A minute passed in silence, Dean a block of ice, Castiel content as ever not to move unnecessarily. Dean shook his head then, having failed in his search for something to say, and tossed the ball back.

          After about an hour more, Dean reluctantly said that he should go back to Bobby’s.

          “Will you stay, though?” he asked, eyes shining in a way reminiscent to his four-year-old self. He asked this more guardedly; Castiel had already broken his trust once.

          “I promise,” said Castiel. “I have nowhere to go.”

          So, after Dean replaced the baseball from wherever he had retrieved it, Castiel flew them back to Singer Auto Self-Service Salvage Yard. After extracting three more promises from Castiel that he would be here upon Dean’s return, Dean went to go practice shooting with Bobby. Castiel wanted to wait inside Bobby’s, but he was sure that Dean had not told anyone about his existence, and he didn’t want to alarm the older man when he returned to his home. He also knew that Sam was probably somewhere nearby, a curious six year old left to his own devices and probably roaming, and he didn’t want to risk running into him. Sam was destined for a _normal_ life. Even if Castiel didn’t care either way, Dean wanted nothing more than this, so Castiel was determined to give it to him, even though he hadn’t asked for it yet.

          Dean and Bobby didn’t return until after dark, and Dean was looking _extremely_ grumpy. Castiel could hear him yelling from halfway across the property, and he slammed the door shut behind him so hard that Bobby shouted, too, though Dean was already marching away. He went around the back of the house and started winding his way through the broken down cars, and Castiel thought he knew what Dean was looking for.

          “Hello, Dean.”

          Dean jumped and turned; Castiel was standing serenely behind him, completely unfazed at the reaction his sudden appearance had elicited.

          “A little warning?” the other requested weakly.

          _A little warning, Cas?_ chuckled Phantom Dean. They had been watching a movie, some film about the mafia that Castiel didn’t understand, and Castiel’s hand had crept a _little_ too far up Dean’s lap.

          “Cas? Castiel? You with me, buddy?” asked Dean, snapping his fingers in front of Castiel’s zoned-out face. He returned to the present (the past?) with furrowed brows and a startled expression.

          “What?”

          “I _said_ I’m beat. Bobby had us throw around a ball, and I obviously _couldn’t_ tell him I’d just been doing that with a strange angel I met when I was four, so I just had to suck it up. I just wanted to _shoot_ things.”

          Castiel pressed his lips together, trying not to smile. He recalled that Dean had always hated people not taking his anger seriously.

          He decided on a distraction instead. “What do you want to do now?” he asked, tilting his head and wary of the answer.

          Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m all tired now.” He paused. “We could watch a movie?”

          Castiel sighed internally. Of _course_.

          “Nothing with guns or horses,” said Castiel quietly, firmly.

          Dean’s expression was one of thorough bewilderment. He obviously thought Castiel was a little crazy, though not nearly as insane as the ten-year-old who hunted monsters in his spare time and had a friend several millennia old, currently in the body of a man in his late thirties.

          “Uh, sure.”

 

~*~

 

They holed up in the shed across the salvage yard from the main house. Nobody was likely to disturb them here because this is where Dean always went when he was in a rage, so everyone knew to avoid it. Dean had, long ago, dragged a holey and beaten-up couch inside, and Bobby had helped him fix up on old, small television. He had even thrown a mini-fridge into the corner, though it was rusty and kept its contents only about half as cold as they should be. Dean walked over and then hesitated, sneaking a conspiratorial look at Castiel, who was still standing in the doorway, examining his new surroundings.

          “You want a beer, man?” he asked as casually as possible, gauging Castiel’s reaction.

          Castiel shrugged. He knew Dean was already drinking, though not hard liquor; an old war buddy of John’s, Fred Jones, had first given him a beer a year or two ago, and Dean had been smuggling six-packs into his shed ever since. Besides, Castiel had seen him borderline alcoholic; he didn’t have any moral quarrel about Dean drinking, mostly because he was used to it.

          “Yes, thank you,” he said, because he knew that Dean would only take one if he did. As a ten-year-old, he still had some reservations about drinking alone, especially in the vicinity of an adult (or at least a wavelength of celestial intent dressed up as an adult).

          A look of immense relief washed over his visage and he turned to rummage in the mini fridge, pulling back after a minute and tossing the can to Castiel, who opened it and took a sip. The beverage was half-warm and very flat, but he pretended not to notice as he politely set it on the edge of the coffee table in front of the folded-out couch and then sat down and leaned back against the cushions. Dean didn’t notice his distaste as he shoved in _The Terminator_ , flipped on the TV, and clamored into the couch beside Castiel.

          The movie was very good, Castiel supposed, but he couldn’t focus very well because he kept having flashbacks to that mafia movie, which unfailingly caused a sort of buzzing to start up in his ears and an uncomfortable prickling in his sinuses. Dean, who was busy mouthing the lines along with the film, didn’t notice his twisted expression until about an hour into it. He turned excitedly toward Castiel, practically bouncing in his seat, and said, “I just realized, you’re exactly like Kyle, coming back and trying to stop some horrible—what’s up?”

           Instead of answering, Castiel reached over and grabbed his mostly-unconsumed beer just for something to stop Dean from noticing his shaking hands. He sat up extremely straight as he brought it to his lips, his posture impeccable as it always was when he was uncomfortable. Though he hadn’t really been drinking the beer throughout the movie, he hastily gulped down about half of it in his determination to avoid the question. He slopped it onto his trench coat and looked askance at the stain. Dean was just staring at him, open-mouthed.

          “Dude, what’s the matter with you?”

          “I—I’m sorry Dean—”

          “Don’t you dare vanish on me,” said Dean warningly, and Castiel froze. Then, slowly, he sank back into the cushions and cast a guilty sideways glance at Dean. “That’s what I thought,” the boy said, disgruntled yet also triumphant.

          He set down his beer, grabbed Castiel’s out of his hands, and put it next to his own. Finally he twisted in his seat so that he was cross-legged facing the angel, who was twisting his hands together and looking anywhere else but into the green eyes scrutinizing him. Dean reached out, unsure, and twisted his hand into the sleeve of Castiel’s trench coat, and finally his eyes flicked to the boy’s.

          “What’s going on?” asked Dean quietly, sincerely, as something exploded on the television.

          “I—I—” He didn’t want to tell Dean about the last time they had sat watching a movie together. He didn’t want to tell Dean about the phantom sitting beside them, whispering into his ear. He didn’t want to tell Dean anything, so he settled on a different truth. “We’ve watched this together before,” he said instead, smoothing out his features expertly and dropping his voice to a deadpan. “And the second…and the third,” he added, watching Dean’s face light up at the prospect. “That was…uhm, that was the first time you told me you loved me.”

          “I—oh,” said Dean, dropping the coat sleeve and sinking back into his own space. “I—uhm—what?” he asked weakly.

          Castiel lowered his head so that their eyes were on a level. “That was the first time you told me you loved me,” he reiterated clearly, enunciating and speaking slower to ensure that Dean would properly understand him this time.

          Dean shook his head. “Don’t _repeat_ it! Are you serious? Like, _love_ love? But—but I—”

          “Like girls, yes,” said Castiel, rolling his eyes. They’ll have this fight in fifteen years; he didn’t need to have it again now. “I’ve heard. I’m an exception, apparently. Not everything is linear, you know, including sexuality.”

          Dean laughed uncomfortably and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, and you’re not exactly a guy either. More like…”

          “An angel of the Lord?”

          Dean didn’t answer. Then he said: “Tell you what, angel boy,” and he stretched back, his arms behind his head, seemingly comfortable with the idea suddenly; maybe he didn’t really think it would ever happen. “In fifteen years, if I’m not seeing anybody, how ‘bout you look me up?”

          Castiel shook his head. “Fourteen years, Dean.”

          “What?”

          “We meet in fourteen years, Dean.”

          Dean paused, his mouth open, evidently unsure. He had been joking, after all. “I don’t—uhm—”

          Castiel waited for him to collect his thoughts. When it became obvious, however, that he was capable of no more intelligent conversation, Castiel shrugged nonchalantly and sat back as well, turning back to the movie, of which they had missed a considerable amount. “Do you have any drinks that are slightly less revolting?”

          Dean ran to sneak some from the main house like he couldn’t get away fast enough.

 

~*~

 

Dean fell asleep around midnight; he had insisted on watching three other movies, and the last had apparently been one too many because he’d lost consciousness halfway through.

          Castiel liked Dean when he was sleeping; he always had. Later, he would promise to watch over him in those few hours that Dean was actually vulnerable. He would memorize the planes of his face and how he slept differently when he was in the middle of a hunt, tense and dressed instead of stripped down to boxers and a t-shirt. Now, however, he studied Dean’s sleeping form like one might observe one’s child, searching for features and mannerisms that resembled those of oneself, or perhaps one’s lover. Dean slept completely laid out, flat on his stomach or back, never stirring, one hand slipped under the pillow (later, that hand would curl around a gun, but for now he just gripped the fabric of the pillowcase in a tight fist). He slept with his forehead smoothed out and his lips barely parted, his hair mussed and sticking out everywhere even after barely an hour’s rest. Castiel smiled softly. Even at ten, he looked exactly like the man he would become in twenty years, in sleep.

          Castiel got up as smoothly as possible, trying not to wake Dean, but the sudden absence of weight on the other half of the couch caused Dean to roll over onto his back, his arm flinging out, his fingers automatically digging into the blanket that he had pulled over the couch sometime during the second movie. Castiel watched him, apprehensive, and to his dismay, Dean’s hand tightened in the blanket and his eyes cracked open.

          “Cas?” he wondered blearily, his voice drunk with tiredness.

          “I’m sorry for waking you, Dean,” he answered gently, hoping to lull him back to sleep. “What were you dreaming about?”

          “Vampire nest,” grunted Dean, and Castiel laughed softly. Dean paused, and Castiel thought that maybe he had returned to slumber, but after a few seconds he muttered, “Do you have to go now?”

          Castiel half-smiled and, before he had properly thought it through, he reached down and raked his hand through Dean’s hair. Dean smiled sleepily, closing his eyes again, and let out a sound that was almost a _purr_ ; he leaned into Castiel’s touch and nuzzled closer into the cushion, since Castiel wasn’t there to cuddle. Castiel removed his hand, and Dean’s motions immediately ceased. He reopened one eye and said,

          “Cas? Do you?”

          “I’m afraid so,” said Castiel, regret coloring his tone. He smiled sadly down at the boy.

          “Will you come back to visit me?”

          Castiel paused. He knew he probably shouldn’t; two sojourns into Dean’s past was already too many. He should say no—but Dean was blinking up at him, imploring and innocent, and the simple refusal got twisted on the way out of his throat, writhing and reshaping itself into something entirely new.

          “Yes,” he answered, so low that Dean couldn’t possibly hear the self-hatred lacing its way through the tiny word, latching onto each letter and raking the sharp edges through his heart.

          Dean smiled to himself and burrowed into the couch. Castiel thought that he probably wouldn’t even remember this conversation in the morning; he looked so heavily sedated that Castiel might have used his angelic powers on him.

          “Come back soon?” breathed out Dean, so close to sleep, but so very determined to extract this last promise from Castiel.

          And Castiel, as ever, couldn’t deny him anything.

          “Of course,” Castiel promised, a frown warping his features.

          Dean smiled to himself, wide and satisfied, and finally allowed sleep to claim him. When he woke in the morning, Castiel was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's thirteenth and thirtieth birthdays, and a random Valentine's Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I recognize that this is extra long. Somehow, a few extra scenes slipped in. Whoops. Sorry not sorry. All good stuff, I promise.

_January 24, 1992: Dean is 13_

 

The day Dean turned thirteen, Castiel flew backwards in time to meet him.

          John had gone to bed in the motel room next door and Sam had been fast asleep in the other bed since nine, but Dean was still lying in bed three hours later, heart beating fast and a grin plastered on his face as he stared at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. He was officially a teenager, it was his birthday, John had actually shown up, he had gotten some awesome presents, and _John had actually shown up._ This in itself was a big step up from the last four years.

          Castiel flapped into existence right beside Dean’s bed. Dean startled and nearly fell onto the floor, but Castiel wrapped a hand around his arm and hauled him back into the center of the mattress.

          “Hello, Dean.”

          “Hey, Cas,” said Dean as casually as possible with his heart still racing. He glanced over at the other bed, but Sam was still sleeping soundly. His eyes returned to Cas’s solemn face. “You came back.” He tried to make this sound casual, but Castiel could detect the relief and, underneath that, something that resembled hurt.

          “I promised you that I would,” returned Castiel, helping Dean to his feet. He had grown some since they last saw each other, and the top of his head now came level with the bottom of Castiel’s chin.

          “Yeah, but—three years, man. That’s still a long time.”

          Castiel furrowed his brow. “It’s half the amount of time between the previous two visits.”

          Dean shrugged, though Castiel could tell that this actually, in fact, bothered him. “True, but—whatever.” He looked away.

          Castiel laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and the boy looked up at him with something close to reverence. “I promise I’ll come more often,” he murmured, trying to keep quiet so as not to disturb the child a mere few feet away.

          “Yeah. Yeah, cool.” His grin was much more relaxed now, and Castiel abandoned the comforting touch. “Hey—do you know what day it is?”

          “Sometime in 1992, right?”

          “January 24th,” answered Dean, his smile smug as he crossed his arms.

          A light flicked on in the back of Castiel’s head. “Oh! Happy birthday, Dean.”

          The boy smiled toothily, pleased with himself—for reaching thirteen, for being compelling enough to warrant a visit today?—or maybe with Castiel, for coming to see him at such an opportune moment. “Yeah, so.”

          “I’m afraid I don’t have a present. I didn’t know when—”

          “It’s okay, Cas, honest,” said Dean, waving his hands. “I get it. You wanna just go for a walk or something?”

          Castiel smiled. So like Dean, to reject any indication of affection, even in the form of something as simple as a birthday gift. “Sure.”

          They left the motel quietly, the door locking automatically behind them. After Dean triple-checked that he had his room key, they began to walk in no direction in particular.

          At thirteen years old, Dean was, again, different. He had abandoned the bitchface he used to make whenever he didn’t get his way (“I’m _not_ telling you about your present self, Dean”) but had also developed more of a swaggering walk. He clearly had a high opinion of himself now that he was “just like his superhero dad” (he had completed his first solo hunt a few weeks ago) but was also even less self-absorbed, putting more energy into ensuring Sam’s safety. He had developed a level of charisma that even Castiel was having trouble ignoring when he asked about the future, and was clearly used to getting his way with non-family members.

          Every time he tried to convince Castiel to give him news, though, he easily diverted the boy by inquiring about previous hunts, or his family. Dean was always eager to provide detailed accounts of his conquests and spoke of Sam as a proud father might, and of John like a soldier worshipful of his sergeant.

          They walked aimlessly in the same direction for about forty-five minutes before they reached a diner. Dean looked up at Castiel, and Castiel looked back and raised an eyebrow.

          “Are you hungry, Dean?”

          “Starving,” he answered, sounding relieved. “Aren’t you?”

          “Angels don’t have to eat,” Castiel reminded him. “Although…I may indulge in a cheeseburger. The sign says they’re the best in the state.”      

          Dean glanced over at the advertisement and hid a laugh. “I don’t think that’s real, Cas.”

          “Why would they lie?”

          Dean just shook his head and led the way inside without further comment, although the smirk he failed to hide was answer enough.

          As it was nearly midnight, the diner was empty except for two other groups, sitting in booths against the far wall. A waiter nodded for them to take any seat they wanted and Castiel immediately walked across to the booth next to the window, sliding into the seat with its back to the door.

          Dean climbed in opposite him, grinning toothily. “This is my favorite seat, man! How’d you know?”

          Castiel inclined in his head slightly. “Because it’s your favorite seat, Dean.” This was, in many respects, answer enough, so Dean just nodded thoughtfully. He liked looking out the windows and people watching, but he was also able to detect any approaching monsters this way. In a few years he would realize that the window was also a perfect escape route if he jumped through it forcefully enough.

          The waiter ambled over and set menus in front of them, flashed them a grin, and sauntered back to the counter, where he was flirting with a pretty cook. Castiel watched them for a few seconds, as fascinated as ever by all forms of human interaction, and then turned back to Dean, focusing on his eyes instead of his boyish face. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see the waiter leaning across the counter toward the girl, flashing his teeth whenever he could, throwing his head back when he laughed, inching his hand closer to hers across the wooden surface on which both of theirs rested. Castiel stared at Dean’s green eyes and mentally reshaped the face around it, aging it, making it mimic the actions of the waiter, all of which he’d seen before. Phantom Dean emerged from his sugar-spun fantasies and seated himself next to the real Dean, a slick smile on his face, one leg on the booth’s seat so that he cold lean easily over the table sideways. His hand stretched out, almost touching Castiel’s but not quite. Castiel immediately took his arms off the table altogether, and Phantom Dean laughed throatily—not at him, never _at_ him, just at his interesting, unorthodox reactions. Dean was never used to having his advances so much as questioned.

          Young Dean watched him curiously, obviously worried; his vessel’s face had gone starkly white and sick-looking, like the first time Castiel had gone to a brothel (Dean’s idea; dens of iniquity were decidedly not his forte, if that night had taught them anything).

          “Dude, you okay?”

          “I’m fine, Dean,” he said hoarsely, and reached for his menu to hide behind until he had regained control of his own appearance.

          They didn’t speak again until the waiter returned five minutes later, bearing a pad and a small pencil. “What can I do you gents for?”

          Dean spoke up immediately: “Medium pizza, please. And do you have any pie?”

          “Apple, pumpkin, or pecan?”

          “Apple, please. Thank you.” Dean handed over his menu and the waiter turned to Castiel expectantly.

          “Just a cheeseburger, thanks.”

          “Fries on the side?”

          “Separately.” Dean always ate his fries for him.

          “Got it. Be about ten minutes, guys.” He walked away and the two at the table turned to face each other again. They just stared, still having nothing to say, until—

          “So, I have a question,” Dean announced abruptly. Castiel raised his eyebrow, cocked his head. “We’re…together, right? In the future?” Nod. Ignore the families staring accusatorily. “How the hell did that happen? I thought…I thought I was—”

          “We’ve already discussed this, Dean,” said Castiel flatly. Actually, counting the time in 2009, this conversation would be the third one regarding Dean’s supposed heterosexuality.

          “Humor me,” he returned in equal monotone.

          Castiel’s expression got, if possible, even frostier. “We will have this discussion in seventeen years, Dean, and that’s when we’ll have it for the first time. Seventeen years exactly, in fact.”

          Dean folded his arms and sat back huffily. God, he hated being undermined.

 

~*~

 

_January 24, 2009: Dean is 30_

 

          “Cas? Cas? Are you—did it—?”

          Castiel sat up, using the wall as support against his back. He spat blood onto the floor beside them. “I’m fine, Dean. Please stop shaking my shoulder; it’s not helping.”

          Dean desisted as though he had been burned, though he still had one hand on Castiel’s knee, which was propped between them like a barrier between Castiel’s injuries and Dean’s frantic attempts at ministrations.

          “Angels have some sort of healing mojo, right?” At Castiel’s weak nod, Dean plunged onward, more like he was trying to convince himself than the hurt man before him, “So you’ll be fine. You’re gonna be fine. You’ll be fine.” He chanted this like a mantra as he leaned back and assessed the damaged slightly more clinically, though Castiel could still see the note of worry that tinged his forehead and clouded his calculations with emotion.

          “Come on, man, get up,” said Dean finally, sighing, resigning himself to professionalism. “Grab my arm—come on—you’re gonna be fine—I’ll get you back to home base where I can fix you up nice and proper—”

          He offered his arm and heaved Castiel to his feet, though he was limping heavily and was clearly damaged internally in several major ways. How the fuck did the stupid monster even _get_ an angel knife, anyway? Dean threw an arm across his waist and dragged one of Castiel’s arms over his own shoulders, so that Castiel’s knife dangled threateningly in Dean’s face with each shaky step they took, back toward the Impala and HQ.

          The drive was absolutely torturous. Dean apologized profusely every time they so much as hit a pebble and immediately glanced over at Castiel, who was strapped into the passenger seat with the buckle, as well as by several lengths of rope that Dean had had in the trunk. They had figured it would help secure him, though all it was actually doing was digging into his injuries whenever the car jostled, which it did most often when Dean took his eyes off the road to ascertain the Castiel wasn’t in pain. All in all, not the best car ride Castiel had ever taken with Dean, even counting the one where they had gotten attacked by a werewolf pack that had jumped on the windshield and roof.

          By the time they made it back to this week’s home base—Castiel absolutely _refused_ to call it The Batcave—Castiel was pretty sure he had at least four new open wounds and would need something amputated.

          “God, you’re such a baby,” said Dean, untying him from the front seat and reaching across to undo his buckle. “You’d think you’d never been mortally wounded before.” Which, realistically, he hadn’t; even God himself finds it extremely hard to inflict pain on sentient light creatures.

          “Just get me inside,” grunted Castiel, slinging an arm around Dean’s neck. Dean tried to pick him up like a fucking _baby_ , one arm under his back and the other supporting his knees, but Castiel staunchly refused.

          “I’m angel of the Lord, not a hurt dog, Dean,” he reminded him in that serious, gravelly voice of his. Dean tried not to laugh as they limped into The Batcave and he laid his friend out on the nearest flat surface, which happened to be a rusted conveyor belt as they were holing up in an abandoned warehouse at the moment.

          Dean tended his wounds dutifully, though there wasn’t much he could do against the inflictions of an angel blade. They would just have to wait it out. When Dean had done all he could, he dragged an old falling-apart folding chair up next to Castiel’s makeshift sickbed, a bottle of golden liquid clutched in his other hand, tumblers pinched in between two unused fingers. Castiel tilted his head, though with him lying down the effect was not quite the same as usual.

          “What are you doing?”

          “You didn’t think I was gonna let you rot here alone, did you?” asked Dean gruffly, rhetorically, pouring Castiel half a glass of whiskey and then an even fuller one for himself. He passed Castiel his share of the alcohol. “Let me bottom line it for you: We’re in this together. Understand?”

          “I understand,” he returned softly, raising his glass slightly toward Dean in a toast before downing half of it in one go. Dean might have cautioned his speed, but then, Dean was something of an alcoholic himself, and anyway Castiel had the highest tolerance of anyone he’d ever met. He’d need at least three or four more glasses before he started to feel even tipsy.

          They drank in silence for a little while, Castiel staring at Dean and Dean staring at the door. He had one hand on his hip and Castiel just knew he was on lookout for approaching danger. Finally, he got mildly sick of Dean’s inattention and said,

          “Dean?...Did you mean it?”

          Dean turned toward Castiel. “Mean what?” he asked softly, eyes flickering all over his invalid’s face.

          “That we’re in this together,” whispered the other, and for all that he had spent the last ten minutes willing Dean to face him, he suddenly found that he couldn’t meet his questioning gaze.

          Dean was quiet. Castiel could feel his eyes on him, but he refused to stop examining every corner of the warehouse. Dean leaned very close and whispered, “Hey, Cas. Cas, look at me.”

          Very slowly and reluctantly, Castiel turned his head. Dean was very close; they were less than an inch apart, and when Dean spoke next, his breath fanned over Castiel’s lips and nose, smelling like whiskey and that underlying scent of pure, unadulterated _Dean_.

          “You’re my only family, you got that? I mean, sure, I’ve got Sam—technically. But he lives in California and he doesn’t have one single clue about what I’m doing out here. Not one single clue. And my mom and dad, they’re gone. So don’t you ever question that. Yeah, we’re in this together. You’re all I’ve got, Cas. We’re family. I need you. Simple as that.”

          Castiel’s lips parted slightly in awe. He was silent for several long, intense seconds.  “I—I—Thank you, Dean. I think that too.”

          Dean nodded dazedly, not entirely sure to what he was agreeing. His eyes were still raking over every inch of Castiel’s face, from his hairline down to the stubble on his chin, and a faint buzzing had started in his ears. What the fuck was happening? He started to jerk away, but Castiel had stretched out one of his sore arms and captured Dean’s jacket sleeve, twisting it around his fingers. Why the fuck did he have to wear so many layers? He could have just gone with the plaid over-shirt rolled up to his elbows, and then he could be halfway across the room drinking straight from the bottle.

          “Dean…”

          “Cas, I—” he choked off. Castiel’s eyes were flitting frantically all over his face and when his tongue darted out to lick his ever-chapped lips, Dean zeroed in on the motion.

          Castiel still had a rock-solid grip on his jacket, so he clearly wasn’t going anywhere but forward. His hand reached out and curled around Cas’s neck, and Dean watched it all from far away, like his body was doing things he hadn’t commanded it to do. Everything seemed to be in slow motion, too, like he had to wade through thick mud just to grip the lapel of Cas’s trench coat, and Castiel still hadn’t moved because he was injured and even just reaching out had rocketed pain through him but Dean was fully mobile and his head was still shouting confused expletives at him as he shot forward and with a little groan crushed Cas’s lips against his own.

          Kissing Cas was…interesting. Different, certainly, than the countless girls he had kissed, and definitely better in some unidentifiable way. Maybe it was simply the person on the other end. Castiel was supremely inexperienced but that didn’t mean he was unbearable; just the opposite, actually, judging by Dean’s frustrated growl as he leaned over his angel, fighting not to just climb on top of him, which would be a thousand times easier and more satisfying, but likely painful for Castiel, who was still bleeding and broken in multiple places. Instead, Dean settled for crouching over him from the side, forcing him back and pinning him to the stationary conveyor belt. It certainly wasn’t the most romantic setting, but then, this wasn’t the most graceful display; Castiel had fisted his free hand in Dean’s hair and was tugging lightly at it, and he obviously wanted to switch their positions but that wasn’t exactly plausible at the moment. Dean, acknowledging this, grunted something that got muffled against Castiel’s mouth but might have been a wistful apology or some acknowledgement of shared desire. To compensate, he deepened the kiss, running his tongue over the seam of the injured man’s lips. Castiel gasped invitingly and welcomed Dean in, sliding their tongues together roughly, still tugging at the hunter’s hair and jacket sleeve. Dean ran his hands down to Cas’s shoulders, which he gripped roughly as he gasped out “Sorry” without ever properly separating their lips. Castiel growled low in the back of his throat and tried to sit up, but even that sent pain spiking through him and he knew the effort was futile when he gasped in agony.

          Dean immediately moved away. “What happened? Did I hurt you?” he asked frantically, studying him closely and all over, and Castiel groaned.

          “I want—I need—”

          But human feelings were still so new to him, and he could not fathom his complex emotions into words.

          Dean raked a hand anxiously through his hair, releasing Castiel altogether. “Why don’t we wait until you’re all healed up,” he suggested, trying to chuckle and failing extravagantly at nonchalance.

          _“Dean,”_ Castiel moaned insistently, but Dean had already moved away, gently shaking loose his sleeve and picking up his whiskey as he went.

          “Later,” he asserted, and left the room completely.

          Castiel pulled a face and let his head hit the conveyor belt beneath him with a rather loud _thud_. He glowered at the ceiling and muttered, _“Shit.”_

          Dean, just around the corner and banging his head against the wall, tried not to think about how attractive he found the idea of Castiel cursing. He had never heard him properly swear before.

          He shook himself suddenly, slammed his head once more into the wall, and downed the rest of his whiskey in one.

 

~*~

 

_February 14, 2009: Dean is 30_

Dean had staunchly refused to think about his birthday for nearly an entire month. Sometimes he caught Castiel giving him extra sidelong looks, but he only noticed when _he_ was staring excessively, so he never mentioned this new development. He was picking up on all kinds of things nowadays: Had Castiel always stared that intently at him? How often did he actually look at the angel’s mouth? Surely it hadn’t been this bad— _before_.

          “Do you know what today is, Dean?” Castiel asked that morning, and Dean froze in the act of brushing his teeth in the motel’s bathroom mirror.

          “Saturday?” he suggested weakly.

          Castiel shook his head. “I believe your kind calls it Valentine’s Day, Dean. Don’t humans worship Cupids and exchange flowers on this particular holiday?”

          Dean raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t buy me flowers, did you, Cas?” he asked skeptically, and Castiel sighed and shook his head.

          “No. I was just wondering if you had a date tonight.”

          “Uhm— _why_?” asked Dean, panic starting in his stomach, but Castiel was always so damn blasé about _everything_ and Dean was seriously starting to wonder if he was the only one who ever thought about the night of his birthday.

          Castiel sighed again, impatiently now. “Because if you did, I would have to find some way to entertain myself for the night. I can’t keep spending time locked in the car, and you won’t let me drive it.”

          “Why don’t you just zap off?”

          Castiel cocked his head, like Dean was speaking a foreign language. “What if something snuck up on you while you were otherwise occupied?” What an elegant way to describe him banging some chick from some bar. “I thought you said that we were like family. I won’t let anything hurt you, Dean.”

          Dean flushed magnificently. So he _hadn’t_ forgotten last month. It had at the very least been significant enough to be stored away for use in a future argument.

          “Oh. Well, no, I don’t have a date tonight. Why? You wanna catch a movie or something?” He cursed internally and tried to remember giving his mouth permission to move.

          Castiel tilted his head even further, like he was trying to tease out all of Dean’s intricacies and was coming up blank. “Of course. As long as it’s better than that astronaut movie you made me watch last month.”

          Dean grimaced. “Are you kidding me? _Star Wars_ is awesome! Shut up.”

          Castiel knitted his eyebrows together, trying to understand human interests and pastimes and failing miserably, as per usual. It was like trying to watch cartoons all over again. Apparently the roadrunner was _not_ a metaphor for God.

          They whiled away the day doing research for a case; they had spent nearly a year chasing the demon that had attacked Dean last spring, which was the whole reason Castiel had come down in to Earth in the first place—to save him. They were sure they were closing in on it, back to the starting point in Pontiac, Illinois, but so far they didn’t have nearly enough evidence to trap it.

          At seven in the evening, Dean gave up on research.

          “Cas, man, I’ve been staring at these books for _nine hours._ Can we break and go watch that movie?”

          Castiel barely glanced up. “I thought this was important, Dean. More important than anything else, if I recall correctly.”

          Dean groaned. “It is, but I’m human! I need a friggin break once in awhile, alright? Now can we go?”

          Castiel carefully set aside the book he had been perusing and stood fluidly. “As you wish. What film did you decide on?”

          Dean grinned excitedly. “I rented one. _The Godfather_. It’s old, but it’s easily one of my all-time favorites.”

          “What’s it about?”

          Dean stared at him disbelievingly. “Are you kidding me? You’ve never heard of _The Godfather_? Oh my god, man, what do you even _do_ up in Heaven?”

          “Well, wage wars against the armies of Hell, mostly—”

          Dean shook his head. “Never mind. Come on, let’s watch.”

          Resigned to his fate, Castiel moved into the other room and flopped down on the bed. He didn’t need to sleep and so had been spending nights in the recliner, watching over Dean as he got his necessary four hours on the mattress. Dean wasted a split second on looking doubtfully at his friend’s seating choice before pushing the DVD into the television, flipping off the lights, and taking up residence beside him. The bed may have been a double, but they were two grown men, and when they lay side by side like this (rigidly, and with straight legs) their arms were still pressed against one another, probably because Castiel insisted on crossing his. Dean had his hands resolutely resting on his thighs, but Castiel’s bicep was still nudging his.

          “Would you stop elbowing me?” grunted Dean as the opening credits rolled, and Castiel murmured an apology before laying his arms out in a reflection of Dean’s pose. This was even worse, because now his _entire arm_ was brushing Dean’s, and Dean was having a lot of trouble focusing on the screen, and an even harder time ignoring the fact that he was having problems concentrating solely because of his friend’s proximity. His _very male_ friend’s propinquity.

          At some point during the movie, Castiel shifted slightly, and his hands fell to either side of his waist. Dean’s eyes widened minutely but otherwise he gave no indication that Castiel’s hand was touching his leg. Very, very high up the side of his leg. Jesus Christ, he was having a heart attack. He obstinately tried to keep his face straight, but Castiel seemed unaffected and fixated on the screen, like he didn’t even notice that every time he shifted, his hand trailed further and further up Dean’s thigh until—

          “Whoa whoa _whoa_. A little warning, Cas?” he chuckled weakly, trying to pass it off as nothing, but when Castiel turned toward him, they were very, very close in the dark. They sat motionless for a few seconds, simply staring at each other, until Castiel seemed to come to himself and he muttered, “Oh, sorry—” and lifted the offending hand, but as soon as he spoke, Dean lashed out and captured that wrist in his hand, then, in almost the same motion, surged forward and brought their mouths together for the second time in Castiel’s long, long life, just as, in the background, loud, disruptive gunfire broke out onscreen like a poor facsimile of fireworks.

          It was as though he had been waiting for a cue; Castiel gasped as soon as their lips collided and kissed Dean in earnest, licking hungrily into his mouth almost immediately. He shoved Dean back against the pillows with his free hand like he hadn’t been able to do that first time, and Dean immediately released the grip on his wrist, tangling their fingers together lightly, for mere seconds, never properly clasping their hands before he had moved on to tease the hair on the back of Castiel’s head. Castiel used his recently-freed hand to brace himself against the headboard as he leaned over the hunter, fisting his jacket in his right hand for a brief second before moving that hand to his hair. Dean’s unoccupied hand reached around and gripped his trench coat hard, as though he had no intention of letting him move.

          Castiel shifted closer in a wild stumbling of knees, and then their legs were slotted together and he could properly lean against the hunter, who pressed upwards just as eagerly to fit their chests together through the layers upon layers of clothing separating their skin.

          Dean was something of an expert kisser, but Castiel was making it his business to discover everything that made Dean come undone. So when Dean tugged Castiel’s lower lip in his mouth and sucked lightly on it, the first thing Castiel did when he was released was return the favor—which is how he discovered that Dean may press closer when he did that, but he made a muffled sort of noise when Cas nibbled gently, and full on _moaned_ when he bit down just short of drawing blood and then laved over it with his tongue, which invariably proceeded to slide further into Dean’s mouth until they were making out desperately again.

          This was also how he discovered that Dean shivered in pleasure when he licked along the roof of his mouth, and that he secretly loved (after a _very_ thorough demonstration on Cas’s own skin) when Castiel sucked hickeys into his neck that even a collar wouldn’t be able to cover unless it was turned up properly.

          He noted each maneuver that pulled any kind of noise out of Dean and filed that away separately from the actions that made him shiver or pull him closer or gasp or press their lips together again.

          Eventually Dean pulled away, breathing heavily, one hand still pressed against Cas’s neck and the other grasping his hip underneath the overcoat.

          “I—I—” he gasped out, but he was seemingly unable to form a coherent sentence because as soon as he separated their mouths, Castiel resumed sucking at his neck and collarbone—anywhere he hadn’t already left a bruise, really, though he was running out of space. This was extraordinarily distracting, apparently. “Cas, stop, I—uhm—I— _Cas_ —”

          Castiel hummed contentedly against his skin, indicating that he should continue speaking if he had anything relevant to say, but he was still having trouble concentrating and couldn’t force out the words.

          “Stop, Cas, I—I need to think—”

          At this, Castiel pulled back abruptly, one hand on the mattress beside them, the other still wrapped in Dean’s hair. “Think about what?”

          “I—This isn’t me—I don’t—” But Castiel was still achingly close to him and he couldn’t think with the nearness. His eyes betrayed him, returning repetitively to Cas’s mouth, which was red and shining and the fact that _he_ had done that only twisted his mind more, until he could barely identify where the fucking ceiling was, let alone form and then convey some thought that would force Cas to climb off of him.

          Too late. Castiel narrowed his eyes disbelievingly and maybe a little disgustedly and moved back a few more inches, disentangling his fingers and bracing himself against the headboard so that he could distance himself properly, though he couldn’t get very far with their legs still entwined.

          “This isn’t _you_?” he repeated incredulously. His gaze turned to his neck for the briefest of seconds, and Dean blushed. He could feel the bruises ticking under his pulse. “What exactly isn’t you, Dean? Does it make you uncomfortable that my vessel is male?”

          Dean looked away, relatively ashamed of himself. “I just—I don’t _swing_ that way, Cas—” That was rich coming from someone literally lying underneath another man, especially when he still had the taste of the mouth and skin of said other man on his own tongue. He licked his lips as though to wipe away the sensation, but his lips tasted just like Cas, too.

          “You do realize that you’re not gay, right? Not that that should be problematic either, but technically speaking, I’m not a man. I am a wavelength of celestial intent—”

          Dean rolled his eyes. That made it even worse. Was there even a word for that particular sexuality?

          “—but regardless, I have no idea why the gender of my body would disturb or even unsettle you. You’re being remarkably close-minded for someone who hunts ghosts for a living.”

          Dean ignored that last jibe. “I just—can you get off me, please?” he asked harshly, shoving at Castiel’s shoulders, and he lifted himself up immediately, rolling onto his side of the bed, then to his feet and retreating to his usual chair. Dean huffed out an exasperated breath, pushed himself up slightly, and continued,

          “Look, I’ve liked girls my whole life, okay? I can’t even begin to count how many I’ve been with, and I have _never_ even been _attracted_ to a guy, so this…this,” he gestured insistently between them, “doesn’t make any sense. Right?”

          Castiel squinted disbelievingly at him. “No, not _right_. I am utterly indifferent to gender, Dean. You think I want you because of your _body_? You really are ridiculous. Not to say it’s not a very attractive body, but that hardly matters. When I came down from Heaven to save you, I did not see your face. I saw your soul, and it was pure and bright and almost painful to observe. Your _soul_ is what matters, Dean.”

          Dean stared speechlessly at him. Trust Cas to say something that absurd with innocence and a straight face.

          Castiel raised an eyebrow and continued, his face totally blank, but in a way that was different from his usual unfeeling demeanor. This was pure poker face, and Dean couldn’t identify the emotions underneath, but he could feel them coming off of Castiel in palpable waves as he went on, and he was suddenly sick and a little frightened.

          “My own brothers effectively slammed the gates at my back. I’m hunted, I’ve rebelled, and I did it—all of it—for you. For your soul, before I had even seen you. I knew your soul was worth dying for. I then deemed this man, this vessel, worthy of coming to save you from a monster, and from yourself. So tell me: Does it really bother you so much, Dean?”

          Dean gaped at him. “I— _Christ_ , Cas—”

          “There’s no need to bring my half-brother into this,” he said harshly, and Dean couldn’t help himself; he laughed.

          “Holy shit, Cas, just—fuck,” and he slid off the bed and strode deliberately over to Castiel, then climbed onto the recliner, straddling Castiel’s lap with his knees, his hands cradling either side of the angel’s face. He leaned down and kissed him gently, chastely, questioningly, then sat back, pondering this tiny action, exploring his own reactions. They were surprisingly positive. He dipped back down and nipped at Castiel’s lower lip, and the angel reached up suddenly, swiftly, grabbing his arms tightly, and then opened up obligingly.

          “Does this—mean—that this doesn’t—bother you, Dean—?” he gasped out between kisses.

          Dean chuckled; Castiel swallowed the sound.

          “I’m still working that out,” Dean said lazily, and then leaned back down for another slow slide of tongues.

 

~*~

 

_January 25,1992: Dean is 13_

         

Castiel paid for their meal and they left the diner sometime around one in the morning. Dean glanced at Castiel’s wallet as he was shoving it back into one of the pockets on his trench coat and his entire face lit up as he exclaimed excitedly,

          “My wallet’s just like that! Where’d you get it?” He pulled out his own as proof. Castiel spared it a cursory glance.

          “From you,” he said shortly. Dean’s brow furrowed, but Castiel did not elaborate. He wasn’t technically lying.

          “Okay,” said Dean slowly, drawing out the word. “Anyway…I just thought of what you could get me for my birthday.”

          Castiel turned toward him, curious. “I just bought you dinner.”

          Dean rolled his eyes and smirked. “Besides that; that doesn’t count.”

          “What, then?”

          “Remember last time I saw you…” Castiel nodded encouragingly. “You said you would show me your wings,” said Dean in a rush, and Castiel furrowed his brow.

          “Dean—”

          “You promised,” he reminded him, crossing his arms and trying, and failing, not to pout.

          Castiel nodded gravely. “True. I’m just not sure you’ll be able to see them. It takes—ah—a certain kind of person, a special person, to be able to see me in my true form, and hear my true voice. You couldn’t until you were nearly thirty-one.”

          Dean frowned. “Oh.”

          Castiel set his shoulders back. “I can still spread them, though. In the moonlight, you may catch the shadow.”

          Dean beamed at him. “Really?”

          Castiel smiled gently at the small, excited boy that would one day become someone who would bite at his lips and purr his name with equal enthusiasm. “Really.”

          And he did; Dean searched the air intently for a few lost moments, sure, despite the warnings, that he would find them big and beautiful and blocking out the stars, but he could still see the trees and the skyline and the city behind them, and he looked down disappointedly. Then he gasped. There, casting a wide, dark shadow on the ground, were what must be Castiel’s wings: Nothing could make such an impression on the earth, even if it was only ephemeral.

          “Holy _shit_ ,” said Dean in awe, and Castiel hid a self-satisfied smirk and folded his wings again.

          “Come on, you have to get back to the motel,” he said quietly, smugness fading as abruptly as it had come.

          Dean looked up at him, set to protest, but something in Castiel’s face prevented him from doing so. He closed his mouth, which he had parted to argue, and nodded numbly. “Okay, sure.”

          They walked the rest of the way back in silence. They parted ways at the door, but just before Dean went inside, he grabbed Castiel’s sleeve. He stared up at the angel, eyes wide and sincere and absolutely vulnerable in the dark.

          “You promised. You promised to come back more often—right?”

          Castiel stared at him, something painful in his expression for the briefest moment before he smoothed his countenance back into the perfect poker face, bare and cold and otherworldly.

          “I promise, Dean.”

          The boy sighed, smiled, and waved goodbye without pushing his luck any further. Castiel had already complied with enough birthday wishes for tonight. Dean pulled out his keycard and slipped back inside his motel room silently. As soon as he locked the door he slid over to the window, pulling back the curtains somewhat eagerly.

          Nothing. The sidewalk was empty, the moon shining unchallenged on the spot outside his window, and there was nothing present to suggest that there had ever been anyone at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date night and judging stares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This is literally just fluff. All the fluff. How is the plot furthered in this chapter. I have no idea. I’m not sorry.
> 
> Edit: This somehow turned into porn I don’t know what happened.
> 
>  
> 
> Also please notice all the references to 4x13 I put in here I worked very hard on keeping this story as canonical as a UA can be.

_September 18, 1997: Dean is 18_

“Dude, she wants me to meet her _parents_. I don’t do parents.”

          Castiel flicked his eyes up to Dean, only half-listening as he flipped idly through a magazine someone had left on the motel desk. John was out on a job and it was just Dean for a week or two, what with Sam now living permanently with Bobby so that he could have a stable education free from rock salt and exorcisms. Dean was alone often lately—well, except for the angel who frequented his past at increasingly shorter intervals over the last few years. John had now shoved his son into some random school nearby and Dean, quite obviously, was not a fan.

          “Dude, are you even listening to me?” demanded Dean, marching up to Castiel and shoving his face close.

          Castiel looked up, his hand stilling on a page, and stared Dean down with the intense stare he always wore. “Yes, I am. You said some girl named Amanda Heckerling wants you to meet her parents, though the idea is evidently not to your taste.”

          Dean slammed a hand harshly on the desk. “Damn _right_ it’s not to my taste! God, I’d rather rip my freaking _lungs_ out!”

          Castiel hummed in bored assent and returned to his magazine. Dean might be over ten years younger than he had been when they’d first met, and nearly twelve from when they had first kissed, but that didn’t mean that Castiel _enjoyed_ Dean’s frequent rants about his ‘conquests.’ They had increased steadily over the years, too, in number and in specificity. Worse still, Dean knew that he was supposedly dating Castiel in the future, but his mid-teenage and even his late-teenage mind seemed not to register that these anecdotes might be a source of discomfort for Castiel, especially as Dean got older and started to look more and more like the man that Castiel knew.

          Ever since the night of Dean’s thirteenth birthday, Castiel had made it a point to stick to his promise to visit more often. He still showed up sporadically, but not so far apart that Dean complained—it might be two months, it might be seven, but Castiel always returned. And Dean always had new stories.

          “Well?” Dean snapped, and Castiel looked up again, frustrated.

          “What?”

          “ _Well?”_ he repeated impatiently. “Have you got any advice?”

          Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Tell her you can’t go. Make up some excuse. Aren’t you leaving town soon anyway?”

          Dean slumped into a chair. “Yeah. I don’t know, if I break up with her now I seem like some sort of _jerk_.”

          “You’re not exactly committed to her, Dean,” Castiel reminded him idly, turning back to the pages before him. “Aren’t you two merely—how did you say it—”

          “Giving in to fits of passion, yeah,” sighed Dean, bored now of even his own eloquence. “In janitor’s closets, no less. She still seems to think I’m, like, her _boyfriend_ or something though. We haven’t even been on a real date!”

          “Aren’t you also often kissing what’s-her-name—the brunette girl?”

          Dean sighed and banged his head against the wall behind him deliberately. “Yeah. Amanda doesn’t know though. She’d count it as cheating or whatever.”

          “It’s not?”

          “No!” Dean said fiercely, red coloring his cheeks. “I’m not, you know, _with_ Amanda. I can’t cheat on somebody I’m not even dating! And I wouldn’t!”

          Castiel had no response to this; he hummed vaguely again and stood, crossing to the window and looking out. Still no sign of the Impala.

          “I should go soon,” he sighed, and Dean jumped to his feet.

          “What? No!” he protested loudly, and Castiel turned to look at him, tilting his head confusedly.

          “It’s been nearly four days, Dean. That’s much longer than I usually stay, anyway.” This was true. Dean often inquired about the reasons behind his lengthening visits, but as these motives were intricately connected to the future, Castiel deigned no answer. He always proceeded to ask Dean if his visits bothered him—he dreaded the day the boy replied in the affirmative—but Dean always hastily jumped in with a _No, Cas_ and _That’s not what I meant_ which generally diverted him from his original purpose with much success.

          “So? Stay a little longer. Who are you going home to? Me?” He chuckled to himself. Castiel lifted an eyebrow disdainfully again and turned away.

          That was another thing: Dean got increasingly snarky as time went by. Castiel knew this died down a little in his late twenties, but it was frustrating for now. Dean, he supposed, didn’t really believe that he somehow became romantically involved with a man later in life, so he frequently made jokes that stung Castiel very, very deeply.

          “No, I’m not,” he snapped before he could stop himself.

          He could practically sense Dean tense behind him, and heard in his voice how he traded the superior attitude for an apologetic and anxious one. “Whoa, sorry, man. Don’t get upset. What—I mean—”

          He sounded confused and mildly distressed, and little though Dean deserved the comfort at the present moment, Castiel steeled himself to give just that. He raked a hand through his hair viciously, breathed out a frustrated exhale, and turned to face the boy after schooling his expression back to calm and unfeeling.

          “Don’t worry about it,” he said flatly, and for a split second Dean was genuinely worried that he would fly away, but he instead strode back to the desk and dropped into the chair, albeit a little harder than absolutely necessary.

          Dean looked unconvinced of this shaky forgiveness, hesitant and nervous as he approached the table. He strode around to Castiel’s side, where the angel was sitting rigidly straight and gripping the edge of the desk so ferociously that if he tightened his hold even slightly, pieces of wood would break off. Dean ignored the blatant potential danger as he crouched down next to Castiel, way, way too close.

          “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, much softer than before, genuinely remorseful and unhappy at how the situation had somehow turned out. Castiel could usually take his jokes no problem.

          “Nothing,” returned Castiel in the same panic-inducing monotone, turning his face away. He couldn’t bear to see Dean right now, unknowing and unthinking and relatively innocent. If he had to look at his green eyes right now, he thought he might lose his mind.

          Dean reached out hesitantly, his hand just brushing Castiel’s shoulder before he stopped himself. He let out a shaky breath, far too close to Castiel’s ear, and said, “Cas? Hey. Come on. Cas, look at me.”

          Castiel was doggedly studying the curtains covering the window when he felt Dean’s hand slide through his hair and gently but insistently tug.

          “Cas?”

          He squeezed his eyes shut briefly before opening them wide and turning to face the boy with a grip in his hair. He had leaned very close in his determination to convince Castiel to turn around, and he tried to lean away but found that his body was not cooperating with his mind. His eyes flicked between each of Castiel’s, who was staring at him with something akin to _reverence_ , of all things. Dean’s hand slid out of his hair and came to rest somewhere between his shoulder and his neck. He stared at the man’s exceptionally blue eyes, wide and pleading, silently coaxing him to speak.

          “It’s nothing,” whispered Castiel, but he did not seem hurt anymore. At least, not overwhelmingly so. The pain was still buried somewhere beneath this new expression, which was childlike in its innocence and yet beautiful in an immortal angel sort of way, similar to the astonishing splendor of a Greek god or ancient statue. There was something else, too...hunger? An odd sort of hunger, Dean decided, almost a longing, or something that went even deeper, like a need.

          “Dean, I…I have to…”

          “Stay with me,” coaxed Dean quietly. “Please. You…you’re my only family…you’re my best friend. I need you.”

          _I need you. Simple as that,_ taunted Phantom Dean, and Castiel almost jumped out of his skin. This apparition mostly stayed to the side recently, if it appeared at all. Right now was an exceptionally bad time for it to make a sudden reappearance.

          Dean cocked his head and pulled away. “What is it?”

          “N-nothing,” said Castiel shakily, getting quickly to his feet. “I thought I saw something. It was nothing.” His tone got flatter and more businesslike as he spoke, until his voice was almost normal again.

          Dean shook his head, mystified but only slightly concerned. He was mostly used to his friend’s weird mood swings by now. “Whatever you say, dude. Can you help me figure out how to let Amanda down easy?”

          Castiel sighed. No matter how old, Dean had a decidedly one-track mind.

 

_September 19, 1997: Dean is 18_

 

Amanda threw a fit, and not a pleasant or private one.

          Dean was fuming when he slammed shut the door to the motel that night. He collapsed onto the bed and shoved his face into his pillow; his _“Son of a bitch!”_ was almost entirely muffled.

          “Rough day, kiddo?”

          Dean looked up from the bed in alarm. That was _not_ the voice he’d been expecting.

          “Dad! I…didn’t see you there, sir.”

          John, who was currently nonverbally assessing his son, was wholly unaware of the way Dean’s heart dropped to his feet behind the carefully molded mask he wore for his father. He had to look and act and talk like a soldier, but his insides seemed to have contracted painfully with the realization crashing down on him: Castiel must have flown off. This was especially painful after the conversation from yesterday afternoon.

          “Clearly,” said John finally. “Want to talk about it?”

          “Not really,” said Dean, getting to his feet suddenly. “I’m going for a walk.” John just nodded. “Okay. Sure thing, Dean. I just dropped in to tell you we’ve got to stay another week or two.”

          Dean paused in the doorway. “You haven’t killed that damn thing yet?”

          John sighed and shook his head, stretching out in his chair. “Nope. I think it might have a mate. I need to stay and do some extra research.”

          “Do you want help?” Dean offered eagerly.

          John shook his head. “I’ve got this one, kiddo. Just remember, it’s still out there, so watch yourself—and bring your knife.”

          Dean winked and patted his back pocket. “Got it covered, sir,” he said as he breezed out the door, shutting it firmly behind him.

          Once he was safely outside, he glanced around and walked an entire block before saying, “Cas, I hope you can hear me, man. I don’t know if this kind of thing goes through time, I don’t even know if you’ve disappeared back to wherever the hell you’re from, but—”

          “Dean.”

          Dean whipped around at the familiar voice, his face splitting into a wide smile.

          “Cas! I—I honestly thought you’d left without saying anything.”

          Castiel cocked his head. “Your father was home, Dean. I had to hide.”

          “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” said Dean, waving away the non-apology. “Don’t worry about it.”

          Castiel watched him for a few moments, but Dean didn’t say anything more. Eventually, he asked, “Why did you call me?”

          “I—oh. Easiest way to find you, I guess.” He shrugged, quirking the angel a half-smile, apologetic and bashful. Castiel seemed unconcerned as he nodded, and Dean said, “You wanna walk? There’s this carnival downtown. I could use a night out.”

          Castiel agreed, though hesitantly. He had never actually been to a carnival, and the more Dean described it the more unsure he became about why anyone would enjoy it.

          “It’s just because you’ve never tasted cotton candy,” said Dean confidently, clapping him hard on the back. “Or fried dough. Trust me, it’s awesome.”

          Castiel nodded, unconvinced until they turned a corner twenty minutes later and the entire skyline was lit up like a million celestial beings had fallen to Earth and decorated the horizon. He breathed out, amazed at the beauty, and Dean chuckled at the look on his face.

          “Come on, dude. If you like the view, you’ll love what’s inside.”

          They walked under the arches announcing theFAIRFAX ANNUAL CARNIVAL and went to buy tickets. Dean insisted on buying Castiel’s, and afterwards they headed straight for a nearby food stand, which was advertising pie. Dean bought two slices and ate them both.

          Unbeknownst to anyone previously, Castiel had something of a sweet tooth. He quickly became obsessed with cotton candy; though he tried the caramel apples and fried dough and was even allowed a bite of Dean’s pie, he returned to the cotton candy vendor at least three times before Dean steered him further into the venue so that he could try his hand at shitty carnival games.

          Castiel was terrible at most of them, all except for the target practice. Dean didn’t want to know just what exactly he got up to in Heaven that made him so adept at shooting, although as a hunter, he had little room to talk about shady practices. Of course, after winning the grand prize, Castiel insisted on carrying the oversized purple gorilla doll with him for the remainder of the evening. At first, Dean honestly thought that this was the source of the stares they were attracting—after all, men in their thirties did not generally walk around in public with life-sized stuff monkeys. It wasn’t until he sat down with his third slice of pie that he realized this take on things might not be entirely accurate.

          “Dean,” said Castiel, his voice more lively than the boy had heard it all week, “You’ve got blueberry on your cheek.”

          “What?” He scrubbed automatically at his face, but Castiel shook his head.

          “No, further down. Closer to your mouth. What are you doing? Dean, what are you doing? That’s not what I said. Stop,” he sighed finally, and reached over the small table to wipe it off himself. Blueberry happened to be the flavor that Castiel had liked best, so he licked the filling off his finger and hummed delightedly. Dean thought nothing of this exchange until he noticed a mother and teenage daughter staring at them in disgust.

          “What?” he called out, but this only flustered them, and they exchanged nervous glances and hurried away. Dean turned to Castiel, eyes wide with bewilderment. “What?” he repeated, spreading his hands.

          Castiel leveled him with an intense stare. “I think they thought we were together. Exclusively seeing one another,” he added gravely, as Dean continued to look utterly nonplussed.

          “Wha— _oh_. Wait, what? Why?”

          Castiel shrugged and picked off another piece of cotton candy. “I suppose this looks like a date,” he said casually, tightening his hold on the gorilla and popping the sugar into his mouth.

          “But it’s not!” exclaimed Dean, too shocked to care that this was the exact reaction likely to upset Cas most.

          “True,” he said thoughtfully. “But I suppose I see how it could be. I assume they think you got me this,” he added, nodding his head toward his prized primate.

          Dean was speechless for a full minute more before his surprise morphed suddenly into anger. “Who cares anyway?” he burst out viciously. “What if this was a date? Why’s it any of their business?”

          Castiel shrugged again and ate more cotton candy. “I don’t know. I suppose they think it’s somewhat sinful, as I look like I’m in my late thirties and you’re clearly in your teens. In actuality, I’m eons old—but I’m afraid I don’t know the ethics code for that particular situation.”  
          Dean’s stunned expression lasted approximately ten more seconds before he unfroze, dissolving into raucous laughter.

          “What?” asked Castiel, faintly annoyed. “What’s so funny?”

          Dean grinned brilliantly. “Nothing, Cas.”

          Castiel tilted his head. “ _What_ , Dean?” he repeated insistently.

          Dean shook his head, still smiling widely. He reached across the table and clapped Castiel on his shoulder. “Don’t ever change.”

          Castiel narrowed his eyes at the boy, who seemed resolute and unyielding in his refusal to let Castiel in on the joke. Dean, contrarily, was utterly carefree. Plus, he was laughing for the first time all day, so Castiel didn’t want to push the issue. He let them finish off their treats in silence, and when Dean stood he immediately followed suit. By an unspoken agreement they left the carnival and started walking back toward the motel.

          They passed the time mostly in silence, until about halfway there Castiel turned to the boy and asked, “What if this was a date?”

          “What?” said Dean, stopping short, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. Castiel started to repeat the inquiry, but Dean shook his head frantically. “Don’t _repeat_ it!” he scowled, and Castiel almost laughed; he could suddenly see younger Dean shining through the layers of all those years. Dean glared at him hard, obviously incensed by the smile playing around the corners of Castiel’s mouth. “Well, it _wasn’t_ a date, so what’s the difference?”

          “What if it was?” he repeated, smiling openly now as he teased the boy.

          “It’s _not_ ,” growled Dean insistently, almost angrily. “I thought we weren’t having this conversation for another twelve years.”

          Castiel froze, knitting his eyebrows together. Dean remembered that? Why in Heaven’s name did he remember that seemingly inconsequential piece of trivia, when all he did was mercilessly mock the idea until Castiel invariably grew too frustrated and left?

          “Time is fluid, Dean,” said Castiel calmly, his smile long gone, something very different starting to boil in the pit of his stomach. “Yes, the future is inevitable—but that doesn’t mean the details are inflexible. Every word, every action is not resolute; only the outcome never varies.”

          “And what exactly do you think the _outcome_ of this is?” hissed Dean, stepping into Castiel’s personal space. He didn’t know why he was getting so irate.

          “You already know that,” said Castiel, an edge to his voice now. “I’m not going to explain it again, because all you do is scoff at the very thought and attempt to do everything in your power to ascertain that this is not your future! But you can’t do anything about it, Dean!” He wasn’t entirely sure at what point his volume escalated, but suddenly he was shouting. Dean took a step back; Castiel followed.

          “You think you’re the only one involved in your future, Dean?” growled Castiel, pushing even closer, forcing Dean further backward until his back bumped into the brick wall of an abandoned department store. “You think you alone are affected by the choices you make, or the consequences you refuse to face? Do you even realize that you are attempting to erase _my_ future as well, just because some deep-seated part of you finds the idea of it ridiculous, or wrong, or whatever other reason you have made up for your own self-satisfaction? You can’t obliterate the parts of history that do not suit you! And even if you could, do you think that I, for one second, would _let_ you? This isn’t just about you, Dean! You alone do not dictate the outcome of our lives! Everything is intertwined, Dean—or did you forget that in your mad rush to single-handedly destroy the only thing in _my_ future that’s worth holding onto?”

          He was shouting and panting and struggling not to hit this boy pressing his back against the wall, and he didn’t even care that he was revealing everything that he had spent twelve years of Dean’s childhood shuffling out of sight.

          “Cas, I—”

          _“Shut up,”_ the angel growled, still breathing heavily. “You have a role to play in our future, Dean, but I don’t have to be here to watch you utterly decimatethe decade preceding it.”

          He turned to go, maybe to walk away, maybe to return to his own time, Dean wasn’t sure—he just knew that his heart was racing and he didn’t know exactly what was happening but before he could think too hard he had grabbed the sleeve of Castiel’s trench coat and was anchoring him there, forcing him to either stay in 1997 or take Dean back to the present with him, and of course Castiel was never going to choose the latter.

          “Cas…” he breathed, and his voice was pleading and deeply apologetic and so filled with obvious regret that Castiel cursed himself even as he began to forgive the boy already.

          “Dean, I—” but he didn’t have an end to that sentence. Dean’s grip on his overcoat had him standing very close indeed, and he was so filled with the overwhelming, intoxicating presence of _Dean_ that he was starting to lose control. Dean’s breathing was quickly becoming shallow and rapid, and even Castiel could hear the difference, though maybe that was only because he was studying the boy so closely. Dean’s eyes were darting between his own, just like they had the previous afternoon, and when he pressed his lips together, Castiel noticed immediately and had trouble moving his gaze back up to Dean’s eyes.

          Dean shifted closer, and in that instant, before he could remind himself that this was one of his worse ideas (and he once almost got Dean killed in a bicycle touring fiasco), Castiel twisted one hand in Dean’s hair and the wrapped the other over his hip, and pulled him close enough that he could kiss him.

          This was not his Dean, but it was at the same time. This Dean did not kiss as well as his Dean, but he didn’t mind; he still remembered every nuance of the man, knew exactly how to elicit every possible reaction, and it was enough.

          For one terrible second, Castiel thought Dean was going to shove him away, but after a brief hesitation, he tightened his grip on the trench coat sleeve and slipped his free hand around Cas’s waist, and kissed him back like he did this every day.

          As soon as Dean reacted, Castiel darted out his tongue exactly as he’d been taught during their very first kiss and ran it over the seam of Dean’s lips; his mouth fell open on instinct, and Castiel immediately sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth and bit down. Dean moaned and squirmed against him, and Castiel abandoned his lip in favor of finally, agreeably meeting Dean’s searching tongue with his own. After a minute or so, he licked along the roof of Dean’s mouth, and the boy shuddered in pleasure, his hands starting to roam. Castiel grunted and crowded Dean closer against the wall behind him, though that didn’t stop his searching hands. One of them twisted into the fabric at his waist, underneath his coat; the other wandered downward, and when he squeezed his ass, Castiel sighed his name shamelessly. Dean chased the single syllable with his lips, vaguely aware that he was starting to get physically uncomfortable. He very casually slotted his legs with Castiel’s, a development to which the angel seemed amenable, but when Dean started to grind his hips up in a desperate search for friction, Castiel pulled back immediately.

          “Dean—don’t—”

          “What?” he asked impatiently, fingers dancing on the shirt over Castiel’s hips, then trailing up to trace the lines of his ribcage. “We’re both consenting adults, right? Who cares? I thought this was kind of already a thing, for you.”

          Castiel shook his head, trying to get his thoughts together. It was difficult with Dean standing so close, compliant and young and beautiful.

          “I thought you were against…this?” he managed eventually.

          Dean shrugged. “Once someone spends nearly ten years telling you that you’re going to end up together, you sort of develop a crush on them. Dick or no dick.”

          Castiel furrowed his brow. “What happened to your attitude from earlier?”

          Dean shrugged, twining his arms around Castiel’s waist. “I don’t know. We can still have that argument in a decade, if you want. I figured I would just not think too hard about it ‘til then, so the fight’s just like you remember.” He smirked. “As it turns out, this feels right.”

          Castiel shook his head, chuckling, and laid his forehead against Dean’s. “You know I can’t let you alter the future so much. We can’t…”

          Dean raised his eyebrows, tapping his fingers along the base of Castiel’s spine so that he started to fidget against him. “I thought I couldn’t do that either way? The future is inevitable and all that. Won’t things pan out anyway? So why not have a little fun?”

          Castiel opened his mouth to protest, but Dean chose that moment to start kissing along his jaw and down to his throat, where he commenced licking and biting at the skin. Castiel made an odd choking sound as his next argument cut off before it really even got started.

          “Dean—”

          The boy, who at this point had given up all pretense of playing fair, nuzzled against his neck. “Mmm?”

          “Dean, stop. I have to go. We can’t…” Why the fuck could he never finish that stupid sentence? And what the hell was his voice doing?

          Dean laughed, deep and quiet, and kissed at the side of his neck again. “Mmm, come on, Cas. Stay here and make out with me. I promise I won’t ruin your future.”

          “Ah, _fuck_ ,” spit Castiel, reaching up to grab either side of Dean’s head and pull him close. He stopped just before their lips touched. Dean’s eyes were wide and blown, staring steadily up at him. Castiel muttered, “You mean _our_ future,” before he pulled him back in another kiss.

          Dean responded hungrily. After a minute, he said thoughtfully, “You know,” and Castiel moved to bite at his neck while he talked. “I don’t—ah, _fuck_ , Cas—I don’t know if I’ll ever mention this, but it’s _really_ fucking hot when you curse.”

          “I’ll bear that in mind,” murmured Castiel, bringing their mouths back together now that he was finished speaking.

          Dean was squirming in next to no time, making these brilliant needy sounds against Castiel’s lips and shifting restlessly. Castiel refrained from rolling his eyes, instead opting to lick along the roof of Dean’s mouth again and again as he liked to do. He slotted their legs back together and Dean moaned fantastically as Castiel immediately started to grind down, bringing both hands to Dean’s jean-clad waist to pull him even closer, hooking his fingers through the belt loops. Dean buried one hand deep in Cas’s hair and pulled, which had him gasping and getting sloppy in his technique, not that Dean minded, because he also started making these noises that should have been made illegal a really long time ago; now Dean was officially going to lose his mind every time he even _thought_ about them.

          “Dean—I want—I need—” gasped Castiel, dragging one hand down his back and wanting to get rid of the fabric separating him from what he already knew was perfect freckled skin.

          “What, baby?” Dean murmured, capturing his lip and nibbling at it for a few seconds. “What do you need, baby? I—fuck—I fucking swear to god—I’ll give you fucking anything right now—”

          “I need—you,” he rasped out, tugging desperately at the edge of Dean’s shirt. “Fuck, I need you so badly right now, Dean. Please, Dean, please, please, Dean,” and he started begging desperately, not even knowing what he was saying, mouthing messily at his neck,  wanting to touch some part of him, _needing_ to feel his skin, any piece at all that tasted and smelled and felt like _Dean_.

          “I need you too, baby, holy fucking _god_ , I didn’t even know I could need somebody this badly. Jesus fucking Christ, Cas, baby,” and Dean was just as unintelligible as he started pulling at Castiel’s overcoat, wanting to tug it off and knowing that this wasn’t exactly a plausible desire in the middle of an alleyway, twenty minutes from the motel. “How—please—Jesus Christ, _Cas_ —”

          “Shut up,” Cas growled, smashing their lips back together hungrily. They were half-kissing, half just breathing hotly into each other’s mouths, pulling uselessly at each other’s clothes, and then Castiel pulled back with a groan and Dean whined plaintively.

          _“Castiel—”_ and it sounded almost like a warning.

          Cas grunted and grabbed his shoulder, and in the next moment they were back at the motel, which was mercifully empty. John must have gone back out to wherever he had set up most of his evidence.

          They both kicked off their socks and shoes, Dean heard the lock click, and then Castiel was shoving him back onto the bed, growling his name lowly, like a demand, or a prayer. Dean fell willingly, gratefully, grabbing Cas’s arms as he went so that the angel was forced on top of him. He immediately leaned up to kiss him again, and Cas moaned at least three more times before he sat up. Dean chased his mouth and he let him; once he was properly seated, knees on either side of Dean’s lap, he dipped down acquiescently to properly tangle their tongues, pushing at Dean’s leather jacket at the same time. Dean slid it off his shoulders quickly, throwing it to the floor beside the bed, and immediately set to work on Castiel’s trench coat, though he was having trouble getting it off while Castiel was repeatedly running his hands over his sides and trying to push his fingers under his shirt.

          _“Cas,”_ Dean whined again, and nipped at the stubble on his cheek.

          Castiel desisted long enough to let the trench coat slide off his shoulders, at which point it unceremoniously joined the other jacket on the floor. Castiel resumed running his hands everywhere he could reach while Dean tugged desperately at Castiel’s dress shirt, just above where it disappeared into his pants. Dean whined his name again when Castiel pulled back to help him untuck his shirt, and the angel chuckled darkly, leaning down to recapture the hunter’s lips, working blindly now. They eventually managed the task, and Cas grabbed at Dean’s cheeks and neck and hair while Dean frantically unbuttoned his shirt, which he managed in record time.

           “ _Shit_ , you have got to wear fewer layers,” gasped Dean as he popped the last button and slipped that off, too. It landed crumpled and forgotten with the rest of the steadily growing pile of clothes.

           “Coming from you,” he returned, less coolly than he would have liked, but Dean was sucking on his neck again and he had to focus on bringing their lips back together so that he could resume ridding Dean of his flannel over-shirt. He accomplished this relatively easily. “You forgot my tie,” he managed between kisses, and Dean hissed unhappily, as he had to abandon his frantic mapping of Cas’s skin to undo the tie around his neck and throw it on the ground. He immediately wrapped his arms around the angel’s back again, but—

           “Lift your arms,” Castiel muttered, and Dean growled low in the back of his throat as he complied, but Castiel had to get Dean’s last layer off somehow and this was pretty much the only way.

          The fabric had barely cleared the top of his head before Dean was surging forward to claim Castiel’s lips again, which was just fine with him. He pushed at Dean’s chest and the hunter fell back, dragging Castiel with him due to the grip he had on his hips. He traced the bone with his thumbs as Castiel leaned down to press kisses to his jaw and collarbone and chest, and then he lifted himself up and hovered there for a moment, drinking in the sight below him. He took one hand off the mattress, bracing himself by placing the other just beside Dean’s head, and the boy immediately turned and pressed his lips to Castiel’s wrist. With his free hand, Cas trailed a finger down Dean’s chest and stomach.

           “So beautiful,” he whispered, and Dean’s eyes flashed up to meet his, “And all _mine_.”

          Dean stared up at him; Cas’s breath caught. They hung suspended in the moment for about ten seconds before Dean reached up to curl his fingers around the back of his neck and pull him down for another kiss, and the hand that Cas still had pressed between them trailed further until Castiel could start in on the zipper and the clasp on his jeans. Dean gasped into his mouth when his fingers trailed lightly over his dick, which Castiel could already tell was hard underneath the clothing.

          He started babbling again. “I need you, Dean, I want you so badly—”

           “I know, baby,” mumbled Dean, taking Cas’s lip into his mouth and biting and sucking at it. “Holy shit, I know—I don’t—I just need you—baby—baby—”

          Castiel groaned. “Stop _saying_ that,” he hissed, but Dean could tell that it was really more of a plea for him to stop turning him on more if he wasn’t going to do anything about it, so he started in on his suit pants just as Castiel managed the final piece of the clasp on his jeans and immediately shoved at them. Dean kicked them the rest of the way off, along with his boxer-briefs, and freeing his cock may have felt good, but Castiel immediately wrapping his hand around it felt fucking fantastic. He moaned out his name again, finding it increasingly difficult to manage the buttons on these stupid pants, but he eventually succeeded just as Castiel started moving his hand up Dean’s dick, and holy _shit_ he needed to rid him of the rest of his clothing _right the fuck now_ or he was going to lose his fucking mind.

           “Me too, Dean, _ugh_ , please—” and Dean hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud but he didn’t care if _that_ was the response he would get. In a combined effort they managed to kick off Cas’s pants and boxers, and Castiel immediately grabbed at Dean’s waist, bringing their hips together while Dean moaned and squirmed and ran his fingers through Cas’s hair and down his back and over his sides and basically anywhere he could reach.

          Castiel brought their mouths back together in an almost vicious slide of tongues, and that, combined with the sensation of their cocks rubbing together, had Dean moaning really, _really_ loudly in next to no time.

           “I don’t—I’m gonna—Cas, _stop_ —”

          He sounded kind of insistent this time, so Castiel immediately stopping moving; Dean’s hips bucked automatically, seeking friction. Despite the same need curling in his own stomach, Castiel reached out to still Dean’s frantic writhing.

          “What is it, baby?” asked Castiel, leaning down to suck a bruise or two into his bare collarbone. “Baby?” he repeated coaxingly, mouth pressed to his skin, because Dean was too busy moaning to answer the first time.

          “Nothing—I want to—I wanted to come—with you inside me—” He couldn’t even think straight, let alone properly formulate sentences, but he managed this somewhat intelligible response. Castiel furrowed his brow, trying to figure out how to get into his trench coat without moving too much, then sighed.

          “It’s— _Dean_ , stop—”—Dean’s hands were wrapped stubbornly around Castiel’s sharp hipbones and he was refusing to let him move so much as an inch—“—baby, everything’s in my coat—do you want me to get it or not?”

          “Haven’t decided yet,” answered Dean honestly, sucking at the underside of his jaw, because although _yes_ , he wanted Castiel to fuck him into the mattress, he also couldn’t imagine letting him go for one second.

          Castiel laughed, and Dean could feel the vibrations in every inch of his own body. _“Cas,”_ he groaned, grinding their dicks together again, and Castiel’s laughter cut off with a desperate mewling sound.

          “Dean—just—” He grabbed at Dean’s waist to still him, and Dean made a heavily frustrated noise, so Castiel kissed him to shut him up while he rooted around blindly on the floor. He finally got the bottle of lube and the condom and heaved himself back into proper position on the bed, whereupon Dean snatched everything out of his hand.

          “Jesus Christ, Cas,” he muttered, and Castiel actually did roll his eyes this time. He kissed Dean’s chest and shoulder and throat while the boy tore open the condom packet and _finally_ put his hands on Cas’s dick, albeit just to roll it on, but Cas would be lying if he said he didn’t automatically respond to the touch anyway, whimpering into the hollow at the base of Dean’s throat. He was just so fucking _hard_ ; anything felt amazing, especially by Dean’s hands. He kissed him again.

          “I’m going to—take such—good care of you, Dean,” he promised between kisses, and Dean shifted under him. Castiel remembered what he had said before and added in a rough whisper, “So fucking beautiful,” right into Dean’s ear, and the boy complained, “ _Cas,”_ again in a breathy whisper.

          Castiel took the bottle of lube again and spread it over his fingers, but Dean stole the bottle back and immediately administered some to his dick, which left him to prep the boy shuddering and moaning underneath him. He moved his hand to the cleft of his ass and teased him for all of three seconds, but they were really both too desperate for any real delays, and Castiel pushed one slicked-up finger into Dean without further impediment.

          He’d forgotten that this wasn’t the Dean that was used to being fucked roughly at least once a day. It was like their first night together all over again, because Dean was technically a virgin in this respect. Go figure, that Castiel would be more experienced than his promiscuous lover at any point on the timeline.

          He added a second finger relatively quickly, because Dean might need prepping but they were still both wildly impatient at the moment.

          “You’re tight, Dean,” muttered Castiel in a tone neither exuberant nor displeased; he was just stating fact, and if Dean wasn’t a little busy fucking himself onto Cas’s fingers, he would have laughed.

          _“Cas_ ,” he grumbled instead, and the angel pressed his lips to the boy’s neck to hush him.

          “I know, baby, but not yet. I told you I was going to take care of you, right?”

          Dean whined and tugged at his hair in response.

          “Right,” Castiel went on smoothly, including a third finger as he spoke, calmly and reassuringly to distract Dean from the pain and discomfort. “Right. I’m going to get you ready first and then I’m going to slam you so hard into this mattress that the manager will be getting complaints in the morning.”

          He said this so flatly, so matter-of-factly, that Dean chuckled briefly into the collarbone on which he was working. “Jesus fuck, you’ve got a mouth on you. Who would’ve figured?”

          Castiel’s lips ghosted over his ear again. “It’s a learned characteristic,” he said in an undertone, removing his fingers, and Dean shivered from the emptiness and the air rolling over his skin, which was superheated and extra sensitive anyway without Castiel’s assistance in the form of breathy panting and whispered words.

          He tried to roll his hips up but Castiel moved further away and forced a pillow underneath him, then pinned him with his hands on his waist. He lifted himself off the other boy completely, shifting backwards, and Dean’s fingers scrambled over his skin as he moved away, shocked and unhappy sounds falling from his tongue.

          Castiel looked at him as steadily as he always did as he lined himself up with Dean’s hole, waiting for permission. Dean spent a few seconds just staring at him, eyes wide and pupils blown to unbelievable proportions. Cas thought he had rarely seen him so beautiful. Finally, Dean nodded very slightly, hands tightening on Castiel’s shoulders, and Cas, after kissing his stomach reassuringly, pushed in very, very slowly. At first, the gaze that he had trained on Dean was way too intense, but then Dean started to fidget in discomfort and he stopped noticing the too-blue eyes on him. When pain flashed across his countenance, Castiel leaned over him and pressed close.

          “Does it hurt too much?” he whispered, and Dean shook his head frantically, wrapping his hands firmly around Castiel’s arms to prevent him from going anywhere again.

          “No, fuck no, don’t fucking stop—”

          He didn’t. When he eventually bottomed out, they lay there for a few moments, just panting against each other’s skin. A full minute passed before Dean’s body relaxed properly, and he kissed Castiel’s shoulder.

          “Move, Cas.”

          He looked at Dean for a couple of more seconds, judging his sincerity, then seemed to accept it; he brought their mouths back together as he thrust in and out, shallowly at first and increasingly harder and rougher until Dean was shouting out and Castiel pushed back, rising onto his hands as he pulled out nearly all the way, and slammed home.

          They fit together perfectly, like stars aligning into constellations, which imploded behind Castiel’s eyes in brilliant arrays of green and blue and red. He traced over Dean’s collarbone, gliding over a freckle, pressing into the soft skin of his shoulder. He was beautiful, laid out all bare and open and needing. Castiel leaned down to kiss him, long and soft and sweet.

          “I’ve missed you,” he sighed into his mouth.

          Dean shivered; he had been with plenty of girls, but he had never had anyone _worship_ him before. He was a little surprised how much this turned him on, and he wrapped his arms possessively over Cas’s back and kissed him back roughly for a few seconds before he realized that he, too, was shaking, though not at all in the same fashion.

          “What’s wrong?” Dean asked gently, cradling his face and kissing at his cheeks and eyelids and the corners of his mouth.

          “Nothing’s wrong,” he whispered, eyes trailing over Dean’s face and memorizing the structure. “I am…afraid of losing you. You are absolutely perfect, with your shining soul that could dim the moon and a goodness so deeply ingrained that you could give an angel back his wings. You are perfect…and dazzling…and I do not deserve you at all.”

          “You have me, baby,” he reminded him, pressing frantic kisses to the side of his face. “You _saved_ me. You’re everything,” he murmured against his jaw, stilling his lips but rubbing his hands up Castiel’s arms. Castiel shuddered in the supportive circle of his arms and turned his head to capture Dean’s lips again, running his tongue over his lower lip and then along the side of Dean’s own tongue, which had the boy shivering more and pressing even closer. Castiel kissed him roughly, and Dean responded with equal enthusiasm. They were responding to a base need very different from the one that had driven them to this point, but neither cared while the other was pressing in from all sides and sighing out his name like it was the only word that mattered anymore.

          After awhile, Dean reached down and grabbed his own cock, jerking himself to the rhythm of their hips, because Cas’s were already stuttering and he wanted to come at the same time as his lover. Castiel mouthed breathlessly against Dean’s neck as he came, and Dean pressed his face into Castiel’s hair when he followed soon after. They lay relatively motionless as they finished, minus the heavy breathing that was the only sound left in the room.

          When it was over, Castiel pulled out quickly and rolled to the side, stripping off the condom before pressing himself close to Dean’s side and slinging an arm over his waist, nuzzling into his neck.

          _I’m so fucking in love with you, you dunderhead_ , he thought roughly in the direction of the boy he lay against, but Dean would not share his experiences for another decade or so, and Castiel did not want to ruin what would come by forcing Dean to process something so huge so soon. He didn’t get rebellious, sexually active, alcoholic angels of the Lord professing their love for him every day, after all.

          They lay in silence for a long time, Castiel’s fingers splayed across Dean’s chest, his other hand behind his own head, his eyes surreptitiously studying Dean’s face. Dean was laying on his back staring at the ceiling, the hand not behind his head playing idly with Castiel’s hair.

          Dean wasn’t really paying attention to Castiel, honestly, at least not the one currently wrapped his in arms; he was thinking, and _I’ve missed you_ was fast becoming an obsession, playing on a loop in his head. He turned to look at Castiel, ready to ask him about it, but the man was looking up at him with his face glowing and his smile evident and his contentment almost palpable, and Dean couldn’t do it.

           “Why do you keep lube in your coat, Cas?” he asked instead.

          “You’ll someday find that your sex drive is rivaled only by my own,” Castiel answered immediately, grave and honest, like this was a matter of life and death and not of their future sexual history.

          Dean was silent for a heartbeat before he burst out laughing, shaking the bed and, consequently, the man beside him. He kissed the top of Castiel’s head lightly, adoringly.

          His next question came minutes later, low and serious and sober.

          “Cas?” The angel hummed to indicate that he was listening. “Can you…why do you…” He insufflated deeply. “Not that I mind, but why do you keep coming back if you’re so worried about the impacts this has on the future?”

          Castiel was quiet for a very long time, until Dean began to worry. But then Castiel sighed and gave one of his non-answers that made Dean want to bash his head into the nearest wall.

           “Well, you know, the only thing that really matters is that you’re happy. Are you happy, Dean?”

          Dean did not reply; he turned back to watch the ceiling again, then huffed and closed his eyes. He heard a choked noise like a dry sob and the weight beside him disappeared. His eyes snapped open, a name half formed, but then he finished assessing the situation. He slowly lay back on the pillows and pulled the sheets up to his chin, naked and alone. When he reached over later for his clothes, he found that the pile on top of it was gone, all except for a long, tan trench coat.

           “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, but he was still alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, this wasn’t supposed to turn into sex. That was supposed to be next chapter. But apparently Dean’s a thirsty little bitch. It also wasn’t supposed to be graphic, but hey. C’est la vie.
> 
> Also I laugh every time I read it because I’m 80% sure Cas only told him to shut up because he kept rasping out “Jesus Christ” and we already know how Castiel responds to Dean muttering his half-brother’s name, especially while they’re messing around.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Familial interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can’t possibly fathom just how exceptionally excited I am that I finally got to use the quotation in the flashback (flash forward?). I really wanted to throw it in somewhere, because it’s pretty much exactly how I wanted this to happen, and it finally worked in here. So hooray!

 

_July 21, 1999: Dean is 20_

 

Dean raked his fingers through Cas’s hair and kissed his cheek, smiling, before he slid out of bed and walked to the bathroom.

          Castiel watched him go, making sure to properly appreciate the way his back curved smoothly into his ass and the tan of his skin and even the cuts on his legs and arms and neck that were an inevitable part of hunting. Dean turned just before he disappeared through the door, leveling Castiel with a suspicious glare.

          “You’re not going to go while I’m in the shower, are you?”

          Cas shook his head. “Of course not, Dean.” He hadn’t left right after sex since Dean was eighteen and he’d realized that it hurt the hunter, who had started to wonder if Castiel was stringing him along in the longest series of one-night stands ever to occur in history. Ever since Dean had whispered these fears into his trench coat (right before pulling it off and throwing it across the room), Castiel had made sure to stay behind until at least the next morning, but Dean was always anxious anyway.

          When he got out the shower, he found that Castiel hadn’t moved except to pull on an old pair of his sweatpants. He plodded over to the bed and climbed back under the covers, sidling up to the angel leaning on his pillows, and slipped an arm over his waist again. He felt an arm wind around his shoulders in return, anchoring him.

          He kissed Castiel’s shoulder, feeling strange and jittery. “Mmm, Cas?”

          “Yes?”

          “Are you…is there…” He inhaled deeply. “I mean, is there…anyone else? In the future, besides me?”

          Castiel angled his head, evidently bemused, both at the question and the seemingly random nature of it. “Of course, Dean. Billions of people, the Apocalypse hasn’t happened yet—”

          Dean, who had tensed spectacularly, laughed and slumped against him again. “No, no, I mean…is there anyone else…for you? Aside from me?” He winced as he said the words, like they were a little too intimate for his taste.

          Castiel stared steadily at him. “Of course not, Dean. Haven’t you learned anything?”

          “What do you mean?”

          “I thought coming into the past just to see you would have made it abundantly clear that I’m not seeing anyone _but_ you,” he intoned seriously.

          Dean shook his head and burrowed closer into his chest. “Good.” He fidgeted, twisting a bit of the blankets around his fingers. “I was just wondering because…I’m thinking about telling Sammy about you…If that’s okay?”

          Castiel went still for approximately two seconds before he said, “Of course, Dean. I would like for Sam to be aware of some part of your life; he knows little.”

          “Cas?”

          “What?”

          Dean stretched up, trying to capture his gaze. “Cas, look at me.”

          He did, reluctantly.

          “What is it?”

          He sighed. “What’s what, Dean?”

          “I don’t know. You seem less than thrilled by the prospect. I don’t _have_ to tell him, you know.”

          Castiel shook his head and tried to make his voice more natural. “No. He’s your family, Dean, he deserves to know.” _Liar,_ accused a voice in the back of his head. “ _You’re my only family, you got that? I mean, sure, I’ve got Sam—technically,”_ quoted the same voice viciously. A chorus of _You’re my family_ started loudly in his head. Whatever Dean told Sam now, however he reacted, Sam was never going to be a major part of Dean’s future. However much he loved the kid, he had to stay mostly shrouded in the dark.

          Dean smiled obliviously and leaned up to kiss him. “You’re awesome, Cas.”

 

_July 28, 1999: Dean is 20_

         

Sam flew down from Sioux Falls, South Dakota a week later.

          He was alone—apparently 16 is old enough to fly across eight states by himself, though possibly that was Dean’s fear of flying and his paranoia brought on by fifteen years of monster hunting talking—and cheerful as ever.

          “Dean!” he shouted blissfully as soon as his older brother opened the door of the motel room, and Dean shouted back, “Sammy!” and pulled his brother in for a bone-crushing hug. God, he’d missed the kid.

          “You’re getting big, Sammy. Maybe one day you’ll be as tall as me.” He ruffled Sam’s hair affectionately, and Sam stepped back with a bitchface and moved around him into the empty room.

          “Shut up!” he said, laughing, and threw his duffle bag down next to the twin bed that wasn’t rumpled and obviously slept in.

          “You hungry?” Dean asked, spinning the doorknob nervously and running a hand through his hair.

          “Starving,” said Sam, looking up and nodding. “I just had a three hour plane ride, what do _you_ think?”

          Dean grinned at his impertinence. “Come on, there’s this great diner up the road. Best pie in Pennsylvania.”

          He grabbed his keys and wallet and walked out, shutting the door behind his brother when he followed. He even let Sam pick the music on the quick ride over, though even more foreign than the pop music coming out of the speakers was the fact that he couldn’t reach over and tangle his fingers with the person in the passenger seat. He wasn’t used to driving with anyone other than himself or Cas.

          The drive was mercifully short (how did Sam listen to this crap nonstop without his ears bleeding?) and they were laughing hysterically as they entered the tiny diner, overjoyed at their reunion. Dean really loved his little brother; he hated that he couldn’t see him more often.

          He was teasing Sam as they sat down and ordered, discussing the date that Sam had apparently gone on with a girl named Amy a few months back. “I’ll bet you just sat there like a sap, didn’t you? Couldn’t think of a thing to say?”

          “Shut up, Dean! It went great until her mom came home and freaked out. They’re really religious or something, I guess she thought Amy and I were, like, _doing_ stuff. But we weren’t, I swear!”

          Dean leaned back against the booth. “Why not?”

          Sam froze for a second before rolling his eyes and kicking Dean under the table. “Shut up. We knew her mom was gonna be home any minute—”

          “Uh huh,” agreed Dean sarcastically, smirking.

          Sam kicked him again. “Grow up. When’s the last time you so much as _looked_ at someone without wondering how to get in their pants?”

          Dean really should have played it off better, but instead he sat up straighter and fidgeted with the hem of his jacket. Sam narrowed his eyes.

          “Dean?” he asked suspiciously; he had been _joking_ after all.

          “Well—”

          “Cherry pie for you, and a salad for the young man,” interrupted the waitress, smiling prettily down at them as she set down their food.

          “Thanks, sweetheart,” said Dean, grinning at her for less than a second before attacking his pie and quite deliberately ignoring his brother’s unceasing stares.

          “Dean?” repeated Sam, eyes widening as he watched the waitress sashay away, “What was that?” He sounded odd.

          “What was what?” Dean asked, annoyed.

          “You didn’t even _look_ at her!” answered Sam in disbelief. “Do you…are you seeing someone, Dean? Like, _seeing_ someone-seeing someone?”

          Dean glared at his brother. “Eat your salad, short stack.”

          Sam grinned maliciously and picked up his fork, but he wasn’t done. “So what’s she like?” he asked innocently a few seconds later, and Dean choked a little.

          “Who?”

          “This girl you’re not seeing,” he said calmly and a little superiorly.

          Dean glowered at his little brother. Well, he supposed he’d have to break it to him one way or another. He’d kind of been hoping to enjoy his pie first, though.

           “Well, she’s not like most girls,” he said slowly, and Sam raised his eyebrows. Dean smirked. “No boobs. Big dick.”

          Sam choked on his food. _“What?”_

           “Shut up,” said Dean, blushing a little. “It’s not a big deal.”

          Sam carefully schooled his features back into calm indifference. “I know,” he said, sitting up a little straighter. “And that’s disgusting,” he added, scowling at Dean. “I just…I’m happy for you, Dean. Are you hap—”

           “Shut _up_ , Sammy,” growled Dean, fixing him with a ferocious glare.

          Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine. I was just trying to be supportive, jerk.”

           “Bitch.”

          They finished their meal in companionable silence.

 

~*~

 

_July 21, 2009: Dean is 30_

         

Dean shifted his weight nervously between his feet, fingers hovering over the first button on his speed dial.

          He still hadn’t managed to press down when he felt arms slide over his waist and a quiet voice breathe into his ear, “Just do it, Dean. What’s the big deal?”

          He turned in the comforting circle of the arms wrapped around him and stared down at the blue eyes watching him. “I haven’t talked to Sam in months, Cas. He’s all busy being brilliant and getting people out of arrest warrants. Now I’m supposed to just call him up and tell him, ‘Oh, hey, just thought you should know I’m sleeping with a guy’?”

          Castiel laid his head on Dean’s chest and tightened his hold on him a little. He hummed lightly, contentedly. “Yes. Would Sam care?”

          Dean fidgeted uncomfortably. “No,” he said hesitantly. “It’s just…I don’t see my brother all the time, man. I barely even talk to him anymore. This is weird.”

          “He’s your family, Dean,” said Castiel quietly. “He deserves to know.”

          Dean wrapped his arms around the angel’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “He’s just my brother, Cas,” he corrected him. “ _You’re_ my family.”

          Castiel disentangled himself from the hunter and stepped back. “That’s extremely unfortunate.”

          Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re telling me. My only blood left and he’s not even family.”

          Castiel moved closer just long enough to kiss him quickly and then stepped back again. “Call him, Dean. I’ll be right in the other room if you need me.”

          He turned to go, but Dean caught his hand and pulled him closer. “Stay with me,” he requested in an undertone, and Castiel stared at him wide-eyed for a few seconds before nodding.

          “Of course,” he said, entwining their fingers more firmly.

          Dean watched him for a moment, feeling his solidity, before finally hitting Send.

          He fidgeted uncontrollably while the phone rang, to the point that Castiel reached up with his free hand and dragged comforting fingers through his hair repeatedly. They trailed over his scalp and lingered near his ears, and Dean shivered.

          “Dean?” came a voice over the other line, and he dragged his eyes away from Castiel, who did not stop running his hand through his hair. Dean tried to concentrate.

          “Sammy!” he answered, too loudly, and winced.

          “What’s up? I haven’t heard from you in a month!”

          “Two, actually,” Dean corrected him. “I, uh, I wanted to tell you something.” So much for necessary small talk.

          “What’s up? Did something happen?” Sam’s voice immediately got low and serious.

          “No. Well, kind of. But it’s not bad. Uhm…”

          Sam sighed, and there was the sound of footsteps and then a door clicking shut and lock being pulled. “Do you need help?”

          “What? No! I just wanted to—to tell you…Well, okay, you know how you have Jessica?”

          Sam didn’t speak for a moment, and when he did answer, his voice was measured and confused. “Yeah?”

          “I—I…met someone…and since you can’t fly down and I can’t drive up, I just thought you should know.”

          After a few seconds’ pause, Sam whooped loudly and unexpectedly; Dean held the phone away from his ear, staring at it in alarm as though his gaze could pierce through the telephone lines all the way to California and convey the precise degree of his bewilderment. “Sam?”

          Sam returned to the receiver, laughing uncontrollably. “This is great, Dean! What’s her name? How did you meet her? When can I come down and see you guys?”

          Dean paused again. “So, there’s one more thing…”

          Sam waited impatiently. “What? Does she have a twin sister and you’re about to tell me something I really don’t want to know?”

          Dean laughed and looked over at the angel beside him, who smiled encouragingly, fingers now trailing over his shoulders and down his arms.

          “No, nothing like that. It’s just, well, this—this person…” His voice got quiet and anxious again. “Well…it’s not exactly a _girl_ , if you know what I mean.”

          Sam was silent. “Oh. _Oh_. Are you…when did you…how did you…?”

          Dean scowled. “It’s not a big deal, Sam.”

          “I know that!” his brother answered hastily. Dean could practically see his puppy dog eyes and the hands he was probably throwing up defensively. “I just…wow, okay. So you’re seeing a guy. So you…I didn’t know you _liked_ men.” His speech was stuttered and awkward, trying to figure out how to properly support his brother without making him want to puke from sentiment.

          Dean’s eyes cut to Cas’s and away. He swallowed. “It’s not _men_. It’s just him. It’s only him.” He didn’t bother mentioning that Castiel wasn’t exactly a dude either. He was fucking some weird heavenly light creature that was currently spreading a wandering hand over his waist and back and chest to try and calm him down.

          There was a ringing silence on the other end. “Did…did you just quote last night’s Torchwood episode?” Sam asked slowly.

          Dean paused. “Shut up, bitch.”

          “Jerk. Big, giant, man-loving jerk.”

          Dean scowled heavily, angry that Sam was so far away. He would really love to deck him. “I _will_ come up just to hit you, you know.”

          Sam snickered into the other line. Dean lowered his voice dangerously as he said, “If you don’t stop laughing right now, I will tell everyone we know about the time you showed your ass to the—”

          “Alright, alright!” Sam shouted over him, panic edging into his voice. “I’ll stop making fun of you for being a huge geek. God.”

          Dean rolled his eyes. “Damn right.” He paused, and when he continued, his voice was much gentler. “You’ll love Cas, man. He’s awkward and nerdy too.”

          Castiel narrowed his eyes, which Dean disregarded. He of course found it much harder to ignore when Cas’s hand, which had been running soothingly up and down his arm, fell onto his hip and pushed up under his shirt. Dean stifled his surprised gasp and glared at him, tugging warningly on the hand he still had wrapped in his, but Castiel only raised a challenging eyebrow and leaned over to press his lips to Dean’s collarbone. He licked and nipped at the spot and Dean kicked him, though this only seemed to encourage him; he could feel Cas smile and then he start to suck a hickey into his skin.

          “I’d love to meet him,” Sam said seriously, oblivious to the battle that had started on Dean’s end of the phone. “When can—Dean? Are you okay?”

          Dean stretched the receiver away from his mouth and hissed, “Would you stop that?” but Castiel just smirked and continued what he was doing. His free hand starting playing with the clasp on Dean’s jeans, his occupied one tightening its grip so that Dean couldn’t pull away and stop him.

          Dean tried to quiet the sounds that Castiel was pulling out of him as he brought the phone back to his mouth. “I—uhm, yeah Sam, sorry—look, can I call you back—”

          “So when are you guys gonna come up to visit?” asked Sam, not listening. “I can’t really come down, but I will if you can’t make it. I know Jess would love to meet him, too—Dean, are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

          Castiel had managed to get into his pants one-handed and blind, and Dean was losing his struggle to stay quiet.

          “Yeah, I’m fine. Look, I have to go—”

          “Dean—”

          “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said in a rush, flipping shut the phone as soon as he got the words out and throwing it across the room almost in the same motion.

          He looked down at the man watching him with huge innocent eyes and growled.

           “God fucking damn it, Cas,” he snarled, and grabbed his shoulders tightly. He kissed the angel roughly, and at the same time pushed him backward toward the bed.

 

~*~

 

_July 31, 1999: Dean is 20_

 

Dean drove Sam back to the airport on the last day of July. They listened to Metallica on the ride there and barely spoke, but just before he got out of the car, Sam clamored across the front seat and threw his arms around his brother.

          “I miss you, Dean,” he said quietly, knowing these words would never be allowed outside of the bubble that was this car, in this moment, quiet and tense and sad. “Come visit more often.”

          Dean gripped the back of his brother’s jacket and buried his head in the kid’s shoulder. “Sure thing, Sammy.” He nudged him away then and gave him a shove toward the door. “Now get out of here. Bobby’s probably drinking himself to death in that big empty house.”

          Sam flashed him a small smile, grabbed his duffle out of the backseat, and exited the car. When he was out of sight, Dean slumped against his seat, thumbs drumming absently on the steering wheel. After a minute or two, he exhaled heavily and started back toward his motel, feeling desolate and alone.

 

He shoved into his room when he got back to the motel, kicking the door shut loudly, not bothering to turn on the lights before throwing himself onto the bed. He muffled a scream against his pillow and tugged viciously at his hair, but stilled instantly when a hand fell onto his back and a calm voice made of cut glass and broken metal said, “Hello, Dean. Is something wrong?”

          Dean placed his palms on the bed and pushed himself up, twisting to a sitting position. He knew he looked a mess with his red face and mussed hair, but in that moment he didn’t care. He whispered the angel’s name and dove at him, knocking them both backwards off the bed and onto the floor. Castiel cushioned his fall, and of course he didn’t mind the shock that rocked through his vessel when he landed on his back. He just wrapped his arms around Dean and smoothed back the hair on the back of his head while Dean buried his head in Cas’s neck and started to shake.

          “I thought you’d left a week ago,” he whispered against his neck, snaking his arms around his waist under the trench coat.

          “I thought you might need company after seeing Sam,” Castiel answered.

          “Where have you been holing up?”

          Castiel shrugged. It probably wasn’t a good idea to tell his hunter boyfriend that he had been watching over him, invisible and a little bit sketchy.

          He changed the subject. “I’m sorry I couldn’t meet your brother.”

          He could feel Dean’s smile against his throat. “You two would have been best friends,” he laughed. “He likes old books and calling people out on their bullshit, too.”

          He sat up then, eyes raking over the angel splayed out on the floor for ten seconds before Castiel copied Dean’s position, shifting to lean back beside him against the bed. Dean crept his hand along the floor until it nudged Cas’s; when he knotted their fingers together, Castiel hummed softly and slanted him a smile.

          Dean fell asleep that night wrapped in blankets and Castiel; Cas hummed Hey Jude in his ear until his breathing evened out and then lay there while the hunter slept, because of course Castiel didn’t need to do the same, but Dean seemed like he very much needed company. He kept him trapped beside him and spent the hours studying his face and breathing patterns and subconscious quirks, and when Dean woke in the morning he was, for once, not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fraternal relationships in this chapter made me want to tear my hair out but I thought that without Sam knowing about the hunting life, their relationship would be more like What Is And What Should Never Be than the canonical version. Sorry.
> 
> Also I ended the chapter differently from the others because I’m sorry in advance about the next one.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

_October 29, 2005: Dean is 26_

 

         

John’s last call was three weeks ago and Dean was getting nervous.

          “I’m sure he’s fine, Dean,” said Castiel impatiently, watching him pace back and forth in agitation.

          Dean halted just long enough to stare at him in disbelief. “He’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t called in a few days. Cas, he _always_ checks in. Something’s wrong.” He started relentlessly pacing again.

          Castiel sighed. “Dean—”

          “I’m going to find him,” he announced, ignoring Castiel completely.

          “That’s a terrible idea, Dean. Do you even know what he was hunting?” He cast Dean a shrewd look like he already knew that the answer was a strong _no_.

          Dean’s forehead wrinkled in thought, and then he scowled. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure I’ve dealt with bigger and badder sons of bitches—”

          “A _demon_ , Dean, and not just any demon. Remember how we’re going to meet in a few years? A demon comes to kill you and recruit you for his army.”

          “I can take him,” said Dean gravely. “We fight him off when I’m 29—what’s the difference between that and 26?”

          Castiel narrowed his eyes, his nose scrunching up in distaste for his attitude. “I wasn’t finished,” he said scathingly. “The demon your father’s after is that demon’s _boss_. You definitely can’t kill it.”

          Dean glared at him hard. He hated when Cas wasn’t completely supportive of his idiotic intentions. “Thanks for all the faith in me, Cas.”

          “I’m trying to keep you alive, Dean.”

          “I don’t need your help!” Dean shouted, throwing up his hands.

          Castiel raised his eyebrow, and Dean thought he had never seen a more threatening look in his entire life. The angel stood up slowly and advanced toward him, and Dean honestly thought he was about to have his ass handed to him. Instead, Castiel stopped an inch away from him and glared hard, eyes flickering between each of Dean’s. After a full minute, he hissed, “Good. Because I have to go and you’re going to be completely on your own for this one.”

          He turned away and walked to the window. Dean blinked and stammered, “What?” but Castiel didn’t turn around, so he strode forward and grabbed the angel’s shoulder, trying to get him to face him. Castiel was suddenly an immobile entity, solid and enormous and unyielding. “Cas? What are you talking about? _Cas!_ ”

          Castiel suddenly sprung to life, twisting around and throwing Dean’s arm so that it fell off him. Dean stared at him, unsure and a little afraid, though he would never admit it.

          “I don’t serve you, Dean. I don’t even serve _man_. I have an obligation to the kin that I have left up in Heaven, and they require certain duties of me that I have been neglecting with increasing frequency over the last decade. They are not happy with me, Dean. Now they’ve asked something of me and I…well, there’s just something I have to do.”

          Dean got very quiet. “Is it…something I can help with?”

          “No.” The answer was swift and cold.

          He released his grip on Castiel’s shoulder, moving it down his arm and capturing his hand. He was immensely relieved when Castiel let him.

          “Come on, baby. You know we work better as a team.” He reached up and ran his other hand over the side of Cas’s face, and Castiel sighed and leaned into him. Dean wrapped both arms around his shoulders and kissed the side of his head. “Right? We do. So I’ll help you with whatever it is you’re dealing with—you don’t even have to tell me what it is—and then we can go find my dad. Okay?”

          Instead of answering immediately, Castiel sighed again and disentangled himself from Dean, moving back to the window and leaning against the sill, facing the hunter. “You can’t help me with this, Dean. The more you get involved the harder this is going to be. The best thing you can do right now is to stay out of sight.”

          Dean wanted to go to him, but he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed instead. “What are you doing over there, Cas? Really?”

          He crossed his arms and refused to answer. “Just lay low for awhile. Please. I’m asking you as a friend.”

          Dean frowned at his word choice. “As a _friend_?” Castiel turned around, surprised and bewildered. “As a _friend?_ ” Dean repeated, clearly frustrated. “How about as my _boyfriend_?”

          Castiel walked over to him finally. Dean refused to look at him, so he knelt down and put his hands on Dean’s legs, ran them up his thighs until he turned towards him. “Dean, what’s the matter?” This was clearly not about Castiel’s secret life in the future, which he had been returning to repeatedly since Dean was a child.

          Dean reached out and put his hands on Cas’s shoulders, pulled him in for a kiss that was bittersweet and wholly unsatisfying. “Are you in this as much as I am?” he asked when they separated, which wasn’t an answer at all.

          Castiel tilted his head and watched him, confused. “Of course, Dean.”

          Dean inhaled and opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t figure out how to make it sound emotionless and unsentimental enough, so he refrained. Castiel stood fluidly and said, “Dean, promise that you’ll stay out of sight in this motel room. Swear to me.”

          Dean blinked up at him, then stood as well. “You have to give me more than that, Cas,” he said, all quiet aggression and visible tension. “Come on, man, I tell you everything. Give me a reason. Any reason.”

          “Dean,” he growled out, frustrated, “The more you know, the more dangerous it is for you. Let it go.”

          “What’s so bad you think I can’t handle it?” Dean near-shouted.

          Castiel pressed up very close to him, a shadow in his expression and fury rumbling under the surface, leaping like sparks, tendrils lashing out at whatever it could reach. “Don’t underestimate my family, Dean. They think you’re a danger to me, to my loyalties. Don’t give them reason to be right.”

          Dean twitched like he was going to reach out or speak or do _something_ , but he blinked and Cas was gone.

 

_November 2, 2005: Dean is 26_

Against his better wishes, and in a miraculous display of restraint, Dean laid low for four days before he broke and went out to a bar; he was sick of room service and he’d run out of beer in the mini fridge days ago, and with Cas gone for the fourth day in a row with zero explanation or indication of his well-being, he really, _really_ needed a drink or seven.

          He slid into a stool right at the counter and signaled the bartender, who pushed a drink toward him with a charming lipstick smile. Before he’d gotten halfway through, a pretty brunette girl in a short skirt, scoop-neck, and ballet flats took the seat next to him. She looked like a very young college girl, maybe eighteen or nineteen, confident and bubbly.

          “Hi,” she said, smiling at him. He looked over at her and nodded, and she somehow took this as encouragement and went on. “I’m Celia.”

          “Dean.”

          She made a thoughtful humming noise. “I haven’t seen you around this bar much, Dean.”

          He chuckled. “Yeah, I just blew into town. Only staying a few days. I think.”

          She smiled indulgently, taking a sip of the drink the bartender had just set in front of her. “Great town, you know. You should see the sights. If you ever need someone to—”

          “Dean.”

          They both turned around at the interruption, which came in the form of a deep voice loaded with intense disapproval.

          “Cas!” Dean breathed out, and Celia looked between them with her eyebrows raised.

          “I’m sorry, are you two…?” she asked, shifting uncomfortably in her seat and gesturing vaguely between them.

          “Dean, we have to go,” said Castiel, ignoring her completely, and the urgency in his voice was so great that Dean didn’t even complain when Castiel grabbed his arm and dragged him across the bar, though he did grumble a bit.

          “What the hell, man?”

          “We have to get out of here, Dean,” he said lowly, eyes sweeping the room distrustfully. Dean watched him with his lips parted in confusion.

          “Uh, yeah, sure. But—”

          “Dean,” he growled in a low voice. “There isn’t time for debate or questions. You have to go. _Now_.”

          Dean shrank under the newly dangerous tone of his voice and the frightening shadow that had crossed over his voice, but he still noticed the discontinuity of his pronouns.

          “Wait, Cas, _no_. I’m not going anywhere without you. You popped out of here for days without a word or anything, I didn’t know if you were dead or alive—”

          “Well, I’m alive,” he interrupted grimly.

          Dean glared. “Yeah, and I’m going to make sure it stays that way!”

          “You can’t win against what I’m fighting, Dean.” He tried taking deep breaths; it didn’t do anything. “I’m not even sure _I_ can win. You need to get out of here—that girl at the bar isn’t what she says—”

          Too late.

           “So.” They looked up; it was Celia, of course, standing a few feet away with her hands on her hips and a dangerous smirk playing on her lips. Cas cringed; Dean glared. “This is the boy that’s been making your loyalties quiver. And _not_ just your loyalties, I hear.”

          Dean glanced repeatedly between her and Cas, sure he was missing something. Castiel’s face had gone dark; he glowered at the girl, and there was nothing of the passionate, almost-human angel that Dean had known for twenty years.

           “Celia,” he growled. “Leave it.”

          Dean almost asked how they knew each other, though he had a guess that made his stomach drop, but then she snarled, her pleasant, flirty demeanor dropping completely.

           “No. He’s been distracting and corrupting you for far too long, and we’ve been tolerating it even longer. It’s over, Castiel. These ridiculous excursions into the past need to stop.”

          He glared at her. Dean hadn’t noticed, but he’d been sidling forward very slowly, and was now two steps ahead and half-hiding him. “Fine,” he said immediately. “Consider them over.”

          Dean’s gaze whipped to Castiel’s profile, but the angel did not turn around. He started forward, a half-formed “Wha—” on his lips, but Castiel threw out an arm to halt his movements. It caught him around the chest and, though he struggled, he could not get around it. He frowned; Castiel very rarely used his powers against him. What the fuck was happening?

          Celia barely spared the hunter a glance. She snorted, though she was clearly unamused, and rolled her eyes. “It’s too late, you understand? We both know he will return in three years, and then this whole thing will start all over again. We need to stop this— _now_.”

          Castiel, who all things considered had been fairly passive during this exchange, stepped menacingly forward for the first time. Dean, too shocked, did not move, though he was no longer blocked. “Celia, please. You can’t—you don’t—don’t do this.”

          She laughed harshly. “ _Please?_ Look at how he’s weakened you! You used to be our number one soldier in the garrison, and now he’s got you resorting to _begging_? Like a common mortal?”

          Castiel growled. “You don’t want to get into this fight with me, Celia. Remember—I was the number one soldier. I can still win. You’re just a messenger.”

          She narrowed her eyes dangerously at him. “No, Castiel. You underestimate the power of the politics of Heaven to continue progressing while you’re wasting time, gallivanting down in this wasteland with common thieves and murderers.” She paused, balling her hands into fists. “I’ve been promoted. I know that my vessel is fairly small and unassuming, but don’t let that get your guard down. I have been granted powers a stupid fighter boy like you can only dream of. I can cut off yours, too. You wanna see?”

          For the first time, Castiel seemed mildly nervous. He backed up a few steps, properly shielding Dean from view, and lowered his voice persuasively. “Please, Celia. We’ll go. _I’ll_ go. You’ll never see him again, and I’ll return to Heaven. I’ll stay there and fight with your army. Just let us go. Don’t make this difficult. We’re standing down.”

          She let out a wild laugh. Dean’s hands latched onto Cas’s forearms and gripped hard enough that he would have broken skin on a normal person. He started inching his way toward the edge of Castiel’s sleeve, under which he knew the angel blade was stored.

          “I _told_ you,” she said loudly, so that people at nearby tables started to stare. “It doesn’t matter if you stop now! In three years you’ll save him on the real timeline, and then this—all of this—will be set into motion again! _We can’t let that happen_. You’ve already shown your true sympathies; _your_ army,” she repeated his words mockingly, “Not _our_ army. You have chosen your side, Castiel, but you’ve chosen wrong. You have to be stopped.”

          Castiel watched her for two seconds. He started to answer, but at that moment, he noticed the light starting to seep out from under her nails and hair and eyes. Panic edged into his voice as he shouted, “Dean— _go_ —” but the hunter hesitated with his fingertips just brushing the weapon under Castiel’s sleeve, and then it was too late.

          The light seeped through Celia’s pores and eyes and mouth and everywhere it could escape, like it was clawing its way through her vessel for its true purpose of utter destruction—of the bar, of the Earth, of everything Castiel cared about. Castiel turned to cover Dean, all but tackling him to the ground in his haste to cover his eyes with his chest and his ears with the arms he wrapped around him, because at that moment, Celia started screaming with her true voice. Dean pressed closer to his angel and they fell messily to the floor.

          Celia’s Grace faded much faster than it had appeared. Castiel did not look up for several seconds, but when he did, he did it slowly, turning his eyes first to the other patrons to assess the damage. Many of them had burned eyes and

 bloody ears, and most of them were dead. He then looked up at Celia, who had returned fully to her vessel but was glaring steadily at him.

          “It’s time to go, Castiel.” Her voice was hard and did not allow room for debate.

          Castiel was horrible at taking orders. “What have you done to these people?” he said in disgust. “They were _innocent_.”

          “They were vermin!” she screamed suddenly, and she lunged at him. He lifted one arm to block her, but the other was still wrapped protectively around Dean and she knocked it aside easily, invading his space, lifting him and throwing him into the nearest booth. Dean stared up at her, his expression a mix between awe and despise, but he was not fearful. Dean was a lot of things—stupid apparently being one of them—but he was not afraid. Celia glared down at him and he glared right back.

          “Fuck you,” he spit at her.

          Her eyes narrowed infinitesimally and she reached down and struck him. He careened backwards into the wall, blood coursing from somewhere underneath his hairline. She strode forward and did it again, and again—Castiel raised himself from the booth and lunged at her, but she lifted a hand and sent him backward into the wall across the bar and then continued her attack on the hunter, bleeding and warped at her feet, and Castiel struggled against her hold but she was much stronger than he and he tried to scream but she was constricting his throat—

          And then Dean’s eyes moved from Celia’s to Castiel’s. He was not pleading or accusing, his gaze held neither hatred nor disappointment; he was just watching him, with—with—

          _Resignation._

          He thought he was going to die and he wanted Castiel to be the last thing he ever saw.

          She raised her fist.

 

~*~

 

_May 2, 2008: Dean is 29_

 

He really, really wanted to call Sam and wish him a happy twenty-fifth, but he was a little busy at the moment.

          He drew backward toward the wall, raising the Colt threateningly, but the demon just smirked and stepped closer.

          “Kill me, Dean,” it purred out of the mouth of a forty-something year old janitor, and Dean grimaced. He really hated Illinois.

          “Fuck you,” he spit instead, and the demon smirked.

          “Well, I didn’t know you swung that way.” It grinned, winking at him. Dean pulled another face.

          “I _will_ kill you,” he growled, and the demon laughed.

          “Go ahead. You think I’m working alone? No.” It stepped closer. Dean waved the gun but didn’t shoot. The demon laughed again. “I have a whole _army_ , Dean. They’ll avenge me.”

          He sneered. “Then I’ll kill every last one of those sons of bitches that I can, when they come for me,” he snarled. “I’ll go down swinging. You won’t win.”

          The demon paused at this, then starting to smirk horribly. “You think I’m working _alone_?” asked the demon in disbelief, raising his eyebrows. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have a boss, just like everybody else. And I guarantee, she won’t be happy if you kill off her little army—which she wants _you_ to front, by the way. I’m nothing to her, I’m just a general, and a theoretically temporary one at that. But them? Why…I imagine she’d kill off half the planet to keep ‘em breathing.”

          Dean narrowed his eyes. “No demon’s that powerful.”

          It stepped even closer. Dean still didn’t shoot. “She is.”

          “Oh yeah?” he asked skeptically. “And who is _she_?”

          It laughed mirthlessly. “Please, Dean. Don’t sell yourself so short. You don’t really think I’m going to tell you, do you? She’ll kill me off herself just for that. Don’t point that gun at me,” it added, face darkening, and it gestured toward the windows.

          Dean froze and looked over at the exits; the glass set against the falling-apart barn walls had darkened, like the moon had gone out in the sky outside. His arm dropped a little—

          The demon sprang at him, knocking the Colt clean out of his hands. They wrestled furiously on the floor for several minutes before the demon suddenly sat up, and it was off him in a second. Dean propped himself up on the wall behind him and spit blood onto the floor, wary and on guard. Then he noticed: the ground was shaking. The demon’s face split in a horrible leering grin.

          “What is that?” Dean asked, voice low.

          “That, Dean,” answered the demon, grinning crazily now, “is my army.”

          They both turned toward the door; Dean fearful but prepared, the demon vibrating with excited anticipation.

          When they came, they burst through the entire wall in an explosion of wood splinters and dirt. Dean shielded his already bloody face from the debris, waving through the dust to try and get a clear picture. They stood like sentinels, expressionless and clearly lethal, like—well, like an army. Dean raised himself shakily to his feet.

          The demon smiled and spun in a strangely graceful way to face him. “Goodbye, Dean,” he said, and swung his arm back, bringing it powerfully forward in a clear command for his knights: _Attack._

          Only, just as they moved forward as one, the ground started to rumble again. Dean glanced from the demon army, which had paused in obvious uncertainty, to the wall where the doors and window used to be. The lights started flickering and sparking, and the ceiling rattled; the shingles outside were clearly slapping against the roof. Dean slid his eyes back to the demon general.

          “More of yours?” he asked casually, and the demon turned to him with wide eyes.

          “I—” he started, but suddenly the demons behind him began to scream. They both turned toward the wall of Hell’s soldiers, raising their weapons.

          They were dropping one by one, steadily and fairly quickly. Everyone’s heads seemed to following the same line, but from his position Dean couldn’t tell what they were looking at. As the new arrival approached the front of the crowd, Dean pointed the Colt straight at it, but when it broke through, he froze, suddenly unsure.

          This—this _thing_ was just a normal-looking guy. Not demonic, if the demon’s shocked and worried expression was anything to go by. He wasn’t remotely frightening, honestly. He was wearing a suit like he’d just come from a business meeting, and the tie was backwards, as though he’d been in a rush to leave the house this morning. He was wearing this trench coat that clashed horribly with his professional attire, and though the overcoat might have made sense in midwinter, right now it was almost summer and the guy had to be sweating in so many layers.

          He looked straight at Dean and said, in a very deep and gravelly voice, “Close your eyes, Dean,” and the hunter didn’t have time to question his knowledge of his name before the guy raised one hand and a blindingly bright light pierced the corners of the room, growing steadily in intensity. Dean threw himself down and covered his ears, squeezed shut his eyes. He could still hear this faint noise, like a high-pitched buzzing, through his fingers, though it was muted.

          After maybe half a minute, something touched his shoulder. Dean sprang to his feet, gun waving wildly, but it was just the random businessman. Dean started to ask what had happened, but he didn’t get through the first word before he looked around and noticed that there were a lot of dead bodies on the ground. He turned startled eyes to the strange man before him.

          “Who are you?” he asked guardedly, raising his weapon again and aiming, and the man tilted his head, regarding him.

          “My name is Castiel,” he said finally, eyes never moving from Dean’s face. “I am an angel of the Lord.”

          Dean just stared at him for a very long time. When he finally unstuck his throat, the only thing he could think to say was, “Get out. There’s no such thing.”

          The man tilted his head further and squinted his eyes, clearly not liking Dean’s attitude. He spread his hands, gesturing around. “Then what killed all of these demons?” He looked suddenly over his shoulder at the lifeless vessel of the head demon. “Well, except for their leader. He abandoned his vessel before I could smite him.”

          Dean stared at him more, speechless again at his complete nonchalance after single-handedly slaughtering a roomful of demons without lifting a finger. Finally he managed, “An angel, huh? And tell me, Angelface, what exactly are you doing here? And what the hell are you dressed up as? Holy tax accountant?”

          Castiel seemed to disregard the impertinence. “This is…merely a vessel.”

          Dean glared at him suddenly. “You’re possessing some poor bastard?”

          Castiel grimaced unhappily at the implied comparison of him to a demon. “He was a devout man, he actually prayed for this,” he replied tersely.

          Dean assessed him distrustfully out of the corner of his eye, half of his attention on the ex-demons spread out before him.

          “And what are you doing here?” he asked finally, turning to face him fully again.

          Castiel stepped even closer, which was especially uncomfortable, since he had already been massively invading Dean’s space. “I came to rescue you, Dean. God commanded that you be saved at all costs. I now have an obligation to guard you, to ascertain that no harm comes to you.”

          “An obligation, huh?” repeated Dean, scoffing at the idea. “Well, don’t do me any favors there, angel boy. I ain’t a damsel, I can save myself. What, you expect me to believe that Heaven’s most precious soldiers like me? If—and that’s a big-ass if—you guys actually exist…you expect me to believe that they actually give a damn?”

          Castiel narrowed his eyes, assessing him; whether he approved of what he saw, Dean couldn’t tell. “Don’t be ridiculous. We have work for you; you’re destined to save the world. But let’s get this straight: Angels do not _like_ anyone. We don’t have the capacity to be weakened by emotions as humans do. Don’t flatter yourself, Dean; this is my job, and yours. I don’t care for you one way or another.”

 

~*~

 

_November 2, 2005: Dean is 26_

 

She raised her fist.

          Castiel let loose a low, dangerous sound. It started as a quiet growl in the back of his throat, something inaudible, but it built until it tore free of his vocal chords and ripped through the silence that had left the three of them suspended in that moment. He lunged forward, and with a gasp and a shudder Celia fell heavily to the floor. Castiel kicked her over, and the angel blade was clearly visible, shining like Excalibur out of the small of her back. He stared at her, loathing burning steadily from his eyes and vibrating through his skin, until his death glare was interrupted by a quiet, broken, agonized voice.

          _“Cas…”_

          He turned to Dean and dropped immediately to his knees. He looked absolutely terrible, bruised and broken and exceptionally pale and slack. Castiel wrapped one arm around his shoulders, holding him up and bringing pressing him against himself. He raised his other hand and brought it to Dean’s chest, but Celia was right: They had cut off Castiel’s powers.

          “You’re going to be fine, Dean,” he muttered, eyes flicking frantically from the bruises and wounds on his face to the rest of his limp body. “We can fix this.”

          Dean grabbed at his trench coat, gripping loosely. “Cas,” he gasped out, and Castiel wondered if he could hear him at all. “Stay with me, Cas…I need you…Cas…Stay with me.”

          Castiel looked at him with hard eyes, his jaw set, his free hand trying desperately to heal him. “Dean, stop it,” he instructed sharply. “You’re going to be fine.”

          Except he was saying this to a man sprawled out on the floor with blood dripping onto his jacket and through his multiple layers, with his face swelling and bruising over his eyes, and he looked so distorted that even Castiel was having trouble teasing out Dean’s real face from this monstrosity.

          “I’m…not,” panted out Dean, with a small smile. “It’s okay. But you…you need to keep fighting, Cas. You’re going…to kick ass for me, right? It’s going…to be okay.”

          Cas shook him by his jacket lapels. “You’re going to be _fine_ , Dean,” he repeated hoarsely.

          Angels were not supposed to feel. They had a duty to their God and to Heaven and to their brethren, but they did not have _emotion_. They didn’t love; they didn’t even _like_ people all that much, if Celia’s attitude was reflective of the rest of the family. Angels _couldn’t_ love, didn’t even want to; it was impossible, a flaw somewhere in humans’ wiring, a burden that angels didn’t have to bear. Humans were weak and pitiable and stupid. Angels were nothing like them. They couldn’t feel. Their logic, their base judgment, was never clouded. They did what was necessary. They didn’t care one way or another.

          “I need you, Dean,” Cas gasped out, and he realized.

          He did need Dean; needed him to be safe and healthy and _alive_. He needed him fighting evil and killing monsters and _breathing_ , because when he breathed everything was alright. People were saved as long as Dean was there to help. He could keep thirty people safe in the span of a day, could save a city overnight, and Castiel needed him to be there to do it. He needed him to fret when he was too busy to call Sam on his birthday and afterwards to act like he was a stupid fuck-up of a drunk who’d forgotten when he was, in actuality, the best brother in the universe. Castiel needed him to scream on airplanes and drive cross-country in a car from 1967, he needed him to sleep with a knife under his pillow and to listen to nothing but his dad’s old rock tapes. He needed him to spit curses at demons instead of breaking down. He needed him to look out at this wasteland of the damned with his eyes the color of the spring fields after the rain and see nothing but twisted mortals who deserved unswerving loyalty and unconditional love. He needed him.

          The angels heard him. Castiel closed his eyes and spread his fingers over his hunter’s chest and Dean, with a gasp and a shudder to rival possession, looked up at Castiel with wide, curious green eyes that shone out of a pure, unblemished, unbroken face. He parted his lips and reached up to touch Castiel’s cheek, like a child stretching toward a toy, like a man that had seen God and redemption and the promise of something more than this sorry life. They were still very close, and when Dean spoke, his breath ghosted over Castiel’s lips like a promise of something he would never be allowed. He spoke with a voice of wind chimes and mountaintops and ocean waves and gravel.

          “Who are you?”

          But Castiel disappeared.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m posting these together because it’s necessary for this to be over.
> 
> Timeline note: I know Cas’s age is ambiguous throughout this, so it’s necessary to know that this happens after everything else; he’s already had a relationship with Dean and then gone back in time and did it again. This is a Castiel that knows everything.
> 
> I’m sorry.

_January 24, 2014_

 

Castiel sat down behind the driver’s seat and pressed the keys into the ignition.

          The Impala sounded just the same as it always did. He remembered it clearly, though he hadn’t heard the engine in over a year. Dean was supposed to be 35 today.

          He had seen it happen twice now, and had expected a different outcome, somehow. _The future is inevitable_. He thought he’d be able to save him, to at least preserve him. But he couldn’t. _The future is inevitable_. He turned on the radio. Metallica blared loudly back at him. _The future is inevitable_. He’d thought Dean was supposed to live. Dean was supposed to do great things, stop the Apocalypse, be a hero. He had been. _The future is inevitable_. Dean Winchester was supposed to be saved. Dean Winchester was supposed to save him.

          “Castiel,” said a quiet voice, and he turned to look at the woman who had just appeared in the passenger seat.

          “Naomi,” he said, grinning at her and sitting up, turning down the music. He winked at her. “You’re looking well.”

          She narrowed her eyes. “Castiel, it’s time to stop this.”

          “Stop what?” he asked, continuing to smile even as he reached into one of the pockets on his dark cargo pants for his bottle of pills. His bare wrist brushed the edge of the pocket, and his forehead wrinkled for a split second. He still felt a little strange with the way his shirt exposed his forearms; he hadn’t worn the trench coat in nearly eleven months, but he still sometimes felt off without it. Wrong. He took three pills instead of two.

          Naomi snatched the bottle from him. “We’ve given you enough time, Castiel. It’s time to come home. You smell like the backside of a hippie.”

          He raised his eyebrows at her. “Uh, I think I can technically classify as one. He would’ve said I was.”

          “That’s another thing,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You have to get past this. Past him. It’s driving you down a dangerous path.”

          He rolled his eyes. “I’m way far down the path, I think. It’s nice here, though. The scenery’s great.”

          “Enough jokes!”

          Her shout rang through the suddenly silent car. She slammed her fist down on the dashboard and turned blazing eyes on the angel in the driver’s seat of the vehicle that he had never been allowed to use. He got very quiet.

          “Please stop abusing the car,” he said softly.

          She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “It’s time to get over this, Castiel! He’s gone! It’s been two years; you have to come back to Heaven and rejoin us—your _family_. You were our greatest soldier once. We need you in our army. Dean doesn’t need you anymore.”

          “Don’t!” he shouted, choking off before he could say more, but he was suddenly the most lucid he had been in months. He focused blearily on her, trying to concentrate; he was a still a little stoned from this morning. “Just— _don’t_.”

          She shook her head and dropped her hands. “What happened to you?”

          He shrugged, the grin plastered back on his face as swiftly as it had disappeared at her mention of his name. “Life.”

          She sighed. “Castiel, we need you back on our side. Our forces are crumbling without you heading your division.”

          “I, uh, don’t fight much anymore. Not if I don’t need to. That’s just how I roll now.”

          She regarded him with disgust on her face. “So you’re a pacifist?”

          “I guess,” he said, shrugging. “What? If you don’t like the connotations, I could use, uh, peaceful, maybe. Aren’t you all about peace? That’s why you’re sending angels into the Pit, right? You’re trying to destroy Hell so that you can have your perfect Heaven.”

          She raised an eyebrow, considering him. “Don’t you like that plan? Do you think our methods are too _barbaric_?” She said this sarcastically, trying to get a rise out of him, but he just shrugged again.

          “No, of course not, O Fearless Leader. I could use, uh, _archaic_ , if you want. Medieval. Isn’t that what humans used to do? Murder each other and pretend they were doing it to help their little villages.”

          She glared at him for the implication. “We’re fighting for the greater good, Castiel.”

          He twiddled the buttons on the side of his seat and leaned back, smirking. “Isn’t that what all great dictators think?”

          For a heart-stopping second he really thought she might smite him; he blinked blankly up at her and waited for the blow to fall. Instead, after a few seconds, the fury drained away and she turned fully toward him. He sighed. “When you’re ready, Castiel, we’ll be glad to welcome you back.” She disappeared.

          He chuckled and reached behind the seat, around the six-pack he always kept back there, closing a fist around the handle of absinthe he had stored in the pocket behind the passenger seat. He took a large swig straight from the bottle and then set it down in the seat beside him. He strapped it in so it wouldn’t tip and turned the keys.

          A phantom appeared beside him, one he hadn’t seen in ten years, wearing a face he hadn’t seen in two. He almost breathed out the name, but couldn’t. The apparition gave him a small smile and touched the hand covering the gearshift, then leaned back and took up the bottle of absinthe, drinking some and settling it back into the seat. Castiel smiled at this ghost and turned the radio louder, punched the car into drive.

          The Devil was calling out to him and he was going to drive straight through the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sidenote: I didn’t mean for Dean to be 35 in 2014, it just sort of happened. Sorry for the accidental endverse. Which reminds me, I almost made Castiel as brainwashed as he was in 8x17 “Goodbye Stranger,” but the year convinced me to make him like he was in 5x04 “The End,” in which he’d already lost Dean in a lot of real ways and that’s how he coped. He’s kind of mixed with crazy!Cas in a weird way. Of course, this surprise characterization made the ending a bit darker than I intended.
> 
> I'm sorry.


End file.
